Madness is Like Gravity
by AnonyMiss J
Summary: ...All it takes is a little push. A Joker/Batman fic, based on 'The Dark Knight' film. I am trying to do this as realistically as possible because, given the right circumstances, it COULD happen, so I hope you will all stay with me.
1. A Little Push

What follows is how I'd interpret The Joker's thoughts in a scene that will become apparent to you from The Dark Knight. I'm concentrating on Heath's Joker. I don't own characters or events that came from DC et al. This may be difficult to read, for which I'm sorry, but future chapters (which may be slow in coming, as I'm not sure where or how I want this to go--ideas are appreciated) would likely be written more traditionally. Please review, let me know what you thought, where you might like me to go next. Thank you.

--

Chapter One

'A Little Push'

I can't admit that I'm... not frightened. Nervous, nervous... Unsettled, maybe? Disturbed. But not crazy, never crazy, no... I'm not.

It's just him and me now, just him and me. "He and I", you're supposed to say! That's what's correct. But nothing's truly correct, is it? What is "correct" in the big scheme of things? Damn the big _scheme_!

Wait, wait, where was I, where was I... Yes, yes, yes. Just him and me, here, alone. And he's hurt, I did that, I hurt him. I can hold my own with even him. I should be proud, if I were someone else. Pride is for the unconscious, the schemers, if you will. If "I" will, I should say. Hahaha...

Where was I?

...Yes. We're alone together. I can't hold him down too much longer, I can see in his eyes, I can sense, I can _smell _that he's working towards something, he's got a scheme of his own against me. I'd take off that big, black suit and dismantle all its tricks if the experience wouldn't be so SHOCKING. Hahahaha, shocking, get it? Haha...

He's probably wondering what I'm laughing at right now, mind always twisting, turning around in there. Wonder what it would look like to get inside there, wonder if it feels like mine. _Feels_...

I'd tell him why I did that, why I blew his girl away, threw his girl away... haha, _threw yourself after her..._ that was good, if I may say so myself. ...Yes, I'd tell him why if he wouldn't think me insane. Which I'm not, not at all, not in the slightest, no, no. Not me. He wouldn't believe it, how could he believe it, what I thought?

Even I can admit that it's odd, what I thought. Not crazy, just odd. Not usual, but not abnormal, not at all, not that, no. No. No...

He has to stop struggling against me! Stop fighting, stop fighting it... How am I supposed to try to explain, explain the why of everything, the how come? I tried to tell you before, at Gordon's house, I was starting to... _What would I do without you...? __Y__ou complete me..._ But you wouldn't let me finish and I got all caught up, all tangled up in your fists. I couldn't concentrate anymore, we were having so much fun... Hold still a minute, so I can tell you!

I wasn't jealous, not of the throw-away girl, never. She was a schemer, doesn't he understand? A schemer, just like the rest of them, playing two against the other, not making a choice, just playing, playing, scheming... It's better this way, don't you see? You'll see, you'll see, give you time, time, time, tick, tock, time. I don't have much now, he's too strong, so terribly, wonderfully, strong...

Don't you see that you always have to make a choice, choose one over the other? Always one over the other, you can't have it both ways, I never could... you never can... you have to choose one or the other.

Now you have to choose me... So strong... You have to choose me now, why? You have to choose me now because you have no _choice_, hahahahaha!

I made a choice and took yours away from you, I took the power and took your choice, doesn't that make you angry? Doesn't it all make you furious? Mad, even? Not MAD, just mad, angry, mad, angry...

Too strong! I'm yours now, you have me, you make your choice with this life, my life, my life, your life. I give it to you, it's yours, I don't want it, never did, never do. Couldn't let anyone else take it, though, not good enough, not good at all. I was waiting for you. Didn't know it, but I was waiting for you to take it away, throw it away, throw me away like I threw her away. You want that revenge, don't you, you want to get me back for that, don't you? I see it in your eyes, I see it, I see it, I see...

Oh! The sky, the buildings, the air, beautiful, wonderful, marvelous, glory, ending at last, my hero, thank--!

What? What? What, what, what?

You saved me. Me. Me, me, me... He took me back, he couldn't do it, couldn't throw me away, not forever, no, no.

It's just him and me now...


	2. Come to Me

Chapter Two

Come To Me

The hospital ward in Arkham was ill-equipped and under-staffed, rather like a glorified school nurse's office. Solemn and heavily armed prison guards converged, two at a time, before any possible exit, more than making up for the lack of hospital personnel. Fluorescent lighting screamed searing brightness throughout the long room. Everything was colored either white or chrome, and the stench of sickness and urine pervaded the air, despite the semblance of sterility.

The Joker was strapped snugly into one of the white-sheeted beds in a line of many of the same. He was not pleased. He'd been at Arkham for over a week now, but it was just an hour ago that he'd realized where he was. Of course, he'd known where he _was, _but it had not been of consequence to him. His stay at this reputable madhouse had been spent in a catatonic daze, during which time he'd been in deep thought. It had been rather nice, really, allowing the kind and oh-so-gentle staff of peanut-brained buffoons to haul him back and forth from the hospital, to meals, to the showers, and back to his comfy little cell while he concentrated only on his own, personal matters.

His last meeting with Batman, during which the hero had thrown him off a building, only to rappel him back up again and leave him for the S.W.A.T. team, had resulted in his being carted off to this rather demeaning and boring place. While he was being escorted, if you will, to an armored vehicle by the S.W.A.T.'s, they had noticed that, aside from being badly bruised and walking with a limp, results of his games with the Bat, his left jacket sleeve was absolutely soaked with blood. Instead of removing his handcuffs and asking him politely to remove his overcoat, the bastards used one of his own knives to cut away the material and get a better look at his wound. How terribly rude!

Just then, a lanky, grey-faced nurse marched over to Joker's bedside. She was older, her fading hair pulled tightly back into a greasy bun, her dull, plain face devoid of emotion. She seemed to know where everything was located without even having to look for it, as she reached over to grab some gauze, antiseptic cream and a thermometer which had been floating in a mysterious blue liquid from a stainless steel counter behind her. Without further ado, she popped the thermometer into his mouth, reached around and briskly removed the bandage covering his left upper arm.

The Joker was both astonished and amused by her uncaring display; he immediately knew that she treated every patient this way, and she didn't care who he was. He looked sidelong at her, a hint of curiosity twisting his features upwards. Despite the murderer's scrutiny, Nurse Taglan (as her badge simply stated) seemed unbothered and continued to dab at his healed wound with the cold, wet gauze pads. After smearing some of the antiseptic cream over the area, she swiped the thermometer from his mouth, glanced at it and nodded (more to herself than to her patient) before dumping it back into the blue-liquid-filled glass behind her. Without having uttered a single word, she wandered off to the next bed in need of attention. Joker shook his head at her retreating back with a jerky movement, scoffing under his breath, and then turned his attention to his arm.

He couldn't quite remember how it had happened (after that delightful fall, a mere injury paled in comparison), but apparently his black-suited playmate had ripped several gashes into his left bicep. How charming; something to remember him by. He now vaguely recalled the Bat shooting little, metal miniatures of himself at him...

_You want to know how I got these scars?_

_No, but I know how you got these..._

It's funny how he often never noted his injuries until other people pointed them out to him. He had so much to think about all of the time that little trifles such as blood-soaked clothing or cuts and scrapes failed to be a bother. He looked down at the three recently stitched rows on his left arm. It was a very nice-looking set of marks, if he did say so himself. The Bat could be so considerate at times. He was always there to play games with him, and now he'd marked him forever, so as to never be forgotten.

These were heady thoughts for the Joker, they made him smile. He hadn't smiled once since they'd slapped him in Arkham. If he hadn't been so completely busy analyzing the events of the past few weeks, he would have thoroughly enjoyed the discomfiture and confusion experienced by Arkham's staff, who were familiar with the image of him as a glib, maniacal genius. The silent, slow-moving man they had been dealing with for the past week must've been quite a disturbing departure from that.

The television set which was situated in the nurses' station (if one could call the small, partially covered cubicle in the corner of the room by such a lofty term) suddenly became exponentially louder, drawing the Joker's attention completely as he heard it utter the word 'Batman'.

"_...The vigilante-turned-murderer hasn't been spotted since his killing spree during last week's double boat hijacking was revealed by Commissioner Gordon. The killer of five civilians and two policemen still remains at large. If you have seen the Batman, or have any information as to his whereabouts, please contact..."_

His eyes glazed over, his breath stopped in his chest. At first he was angry. How could the Bat do such a stupid, 'noble' thing? He'd shown him what Harvey Dent really was--a deranged monster, just like everyone is deep down. He had worked so hard to drive his point home to Bats, to really _show_ him what he was trying to say. Unlike many others who he preached his messages to, it was very important that the man understand him, and mere words never did anyone much good. Why would he still protect him after knowing that? What was his motivation? Why?!

But... but... But, this isn't such a bad thing, after all. The Bat must be in hiding now. He's a fugitive, but they'll never catch him. They couldn't! They're lucky he himself needed this nice week and a half to get some rest, or they wouldn't have him either. And they won't, soon enough. The Joker chuckled softly to himself, ignoring the nervous glances from the other patients and nurses around him. Soon enough, he'd join Batman, and together they'd put on a real show for this miserable town.

-- -- -- -- --

Bruce Wayne was depressed. He'd holed himself up in Wayne Manor for over a week, since it had all ended, since they'd caught the clown. Since _he'd_ caught the clown. He knew the cops would have never come close to the madman if he hadn't shown them the way. Sure, he respected Jim Gordon and his like, but people like him were few and far between in the world of law enforcement. Bruce wondered what they'd ever do without the Batman. Speaking of which, he really should get back to work...

But he'd been watching the news on and off for the past week (he left the television in his room on to one of the higher-quality news channels day and night, since he'd last come home), and, with that demented clown behind bars and Gotham's remaining criminals still reeling from the havoc he'd wreaked, there was little to report. Aside from several petty thefts and the capture of a local check forger, things were peaceful and quiet in Gotham.

Not that he could do anything about it if there had been serious crime. He was a wanted man now. Or, Batman was. No one suspected the innocently insipid Bruce Wayne of any of the crimes his masked counterpart had been charged with. The past week had been the longest he'd ever endured without the bat suit since he had become Batman, and he'd never felt more uncertain of his identity. He was beginning to feel restless, itchy. As though Bruce Wayne was the disguise he had to wear, he yearned to don the bat suit and feel capable and sure of himself again.

Bruce rose slowly from his king-sized bed, untangling himself from its navy blue satin sheets, and made his way to the bathroom (which was, in actuality, several rooms that adjoined each other: a room for the bath and shower, one for the sink, toiletries and wall-sized, floor length mirror, and finally, one for the actual toilet). He washed his face before studying it in the mirror. He was almost surprised to see only himself there, with no mask on. He looked tired and haunted, which he had been. He'd had a lot to mull over this past week.

He was unpleasantly surprised to find that he had already made peace with Rachel's passing--no, with her tragic murder. Truthfully, he hadn't really known her very well, nor she him. Sure, they'd been good friends since childhood, but they also hadn't seen much of each other since then, either. She really had been his one chance for a normal life. A dream which may not have been based on reality. Rachel was a beautiful, kind and intelligent woman, and he did love her very much. But as he thought about her this past week--and he did little else but think of her and all that had happened to them and to Gotham--he knew that he had not been in love with her. When she was still alive, he could sleep without her, eat without her, go days without thinking about her. She was linked in his mind to a normal life as Bruce Wayne, as normal a life as could be possible when one is a world-famous billionaire. A life he knew he could never have. A life he knew he never truly wanted.

He wanted to be Batman again, he needed to be. The most noble and difficult thing he'd ever done was to take the blame for what Harvey Dent had done. But it was maddening, having to accept those lies. He was not a murderer! It was the one thing he swore he'd never become, the one line he would never cross. Poor Harvey, if only he could have protected him better, not let him out of his sight for one moment... Poor Harvey. The Joker had really proven his point with that poor man, damn him. But who would have remained intact after all that? Who on this earth could stay sane after what that sadistic psychopath put him through? Damn the Joker, damn him to hell...

"Damn that conniving clown!" he shouted at the ceiling before realizing his mouth had even moved at all.

"Was that you, Master Bruce?" Alfred called from his personal suite down the hall. "Is everything all right?"

Bruce's face went red, embarrassment mingling with the anger he still felt.

"It's fine, Alfred," he yelled back, irritated with himself. He really needed to get out of the house. The only person he'd seen or spoken to for the past week had been Alfred, who was too polite to say anything about his master's depressive lethargy, bless him. Give him another week, and the butler would tell him all about it. But for now, his English sense of decency kept him from it.

Bruce began to pace restlessly in his room. He was furious, both at the Joker and at his inability to safely become Batman. It was all that demented clown's fault, he knew. Harvey did what he did because of that lunatic, who had done all that just to fuck with his head. Yes, it had become personal. The last conversation (if it could be called something so decent as a 'conversation') between Batman and the Joker in the unfinished building, the things the madman had said revealed that it was all personal, that it was all to show _him_ that the two of them were intrinsically the same. Two sides of the same coin. Bruce grimaced at the analogy.

The only satisfaction he was able to achieve was from the knowledge that the Joker was safely locked away in Arkham Asylum. They had probably pumped him so full of drugs by now that he wouldn't even remember his own name. Even such a piteous fate was too good for that vile creature.

The sun was setting; another day had been wasted. Bruce sighed deeply, letting the anger go for the night, as he settled back into his bed to watch the nightly news, hoping that all remained calm in his city.

-- -- -- -- --

Though he was no longer silent, the Joker remained easy to care for, for another week at Arkham. Despite sporadic attacks of the giggles and the constantly roving dark green eyes, he minded his manners and kept to himself. He had been so well behaved during the entirety of his stay there, in fact, that the staff didn't feel the need to medicate him. Such a result was not in the least bit unplanned, of course.

Being a nice boy was not all that difficult. He didn't need to create any amusement for himself, for he was always preoccupied by the thrilling, slightly anxious feeling which came with knowing that something good was going to happen, but not being sure of just when it would occur. It was difficult to keep this giddy excitement to himself, but he managed to do it. No one could know that Batman would be coming soon! Now that the Bat was regarded as a criminal by the public, as he himself was, he'd start realizing just how true the Joker's last words to him had been. He'd had a week to think about it--no, more than a week. He was a smart guy, he'd put it all together.

He and Batman were truly two sides of the same coin, if you will.

The other inmates stared at him as another series of loud chortles escaped his lips. He was like a ticking bomb waiting to explode, and even the subdued--or, doped up--patients knew it. They feared him, despite the fact that he was supposedly safely contained behind the thick, iron bars of his cell. He was the Joker; when he wanted to, he would find a way to get out. And the others only hoped that he would leave them be when he did.

A gratingly loud bell rang, signaling dinner time for the inmates. Five o'clock sharp, every night. A large, humorless-looking orderly clunked his way over to the Joker's cell. He entered the code that would unlock the door, watching the prisoner suspiciously as he did so. Joker paid him no mind; he was not interested in Arkham's little codes and procedures just then. If he wanted to, he would get out, but he didn't want to just yet. Batman knew he was here, and here he would stay until he came to get him. After the catharsis of their last meeting, he figured he'd make it easy on him.

-- --

One day passed with no sign of Batman, and then another, and another. The Joker began to grow impatient. The excitement of the wait was wearing thin. He was becoming cranky and irritable, showing the first signs of rebelling against Arkham's staff by refusing certain meals and asking everyone who passed by his cell (be they fellow inmate or member of the staff) where his makeup was being hidden.

It had been washed off of his face, rather forcefully, upon his arrival, and at first he had been too busy to care that it was not returned to him. But the more bored and angry he became, the more he wanted it covering his face. It was his protection and his war paint, and getting it back was becoming an obsession. The trademark tics and jitters that had assaulted his body prior to his enrollment into Arkham had returned full-force. He was not aggressive in any way, but his stuttered outbursts and restless pacing were unnerving the staff and inciting the other inmates. It was decided that he would have to be sent to therapy, as they couldn't legally force medication on or into him unless he were violent to himself or to others. And, who knows? Maybe they could get him to open up about his twisted crimes and even tell them who he really was (for, still, no one knew, and he had been unwilling to say).

He was not told that he had this little appointment until the two orderlies assigned to escort him to it came to pick him up. The Joker, who had been pacing his cell and mumbling to himself, grinned at the news. This was just the opportunity he needed to lure the big, black Bat to him. If the man was going to be shy and reticent about seeing him again, the Joker would just have to find a way to insist that he come for a visit. Good things did come to those who waited after all!

"Very well, then. Shall we, gentlemen?" He held out his arms, ready to be helped into his dinner jacket.

The brutish orderlies shared a questioning glance before roughly wrapping him into a straitjacket.

Knowing how dangerous and unpredictable he had been in the past, most of the psychiatric staff at Arkham were quite reluctant to see him. Fortunately for them, a recently employed Dr. Clive Arthur, who was either too new or too cocky (or both) to be afraid of the notorious criminal, happily volunteered to take on the challenge. He came from what they call "old money", and had been born with the choice of one day being either a medical doctor or an attorney. He had rather disappointed his old mother and dad by choosing to study psychiatry, and he was determined to prove his worth to them after his recent graduation. Breaking into the infamous Joker's mind and revealing its past and psyche would be just the thing to make them proud.

On the day of their first meeting, he smoothed back his gelled brown hair and adjusted his large glasses, small eyes beady and greedy behind them, ready to smile at the Joker when he entered the room with his entourage.

The criminal was led into the young Doctor's office by two rather large orderlies, strapped tightly into the straitjacket to assure his cooperation. Joker briefly surveyed the room with darting eyes, committing his surroundings to memory. The floor and walls of the small room were whitewashed, and the table which separated the patient from the Dr. was made of cheap blond wood. But, while the Dr.'s chair was black, cushy and had wheels on its legs, the chair the Joker was forced into was armless and made of steel, and its legs had been bolted down to the concrete floor--just in case he happened to forget the hierarchy that existed within the room, of course. Aside from a very small, dusty wooden book shelf in the left corner of the room and the institution's ever-present fluorescent lighting scheme, there was very little for the Joker to work with.

The two goons that had accompanied the patient now stood on either side of the door, faces turned down as if that would give the other two some privacy. The Joker and the Dr. engaged in a silent staring match for the first five minutes of their session, each studying the other for different reasons, looking for different things. Dr. Arthur was very familiar with the Joker's crimes, with his 'televised appearances' on the news.

The serious, unsmiling man who sat before him now wore no makeup, and was remarkably less intimidating than the image he had been familiar with. His skin, though pale, was not sickly, and his longish dark blond hair, the ends of which still clung to the shade of forest green that the man preferred (it matched his eyes), was thick and clean. He was slim but not scrawny, neither tall nor short. Aside from the badly stitched scars that ran up his cheeks, he appeared to be a handsome man, an intense intellect gleaming through his almond-shaped eyes.

Finally the Dr. smiled, no teeth showing, pretending at warmth. He had judged the man who was seated before him to be not unthreatening. He would now begin their session.

"Hello. My name is Dr. Arthur." He hadn't expected a response, and got none from the Joker, who continued to scrutinize him openly. He would start small. "How are you feeling today, Mr..."

"Call me Edward," the Joker interrupted suddenly, voice calm. He could see the excitement blossoming behind the Dr.'s little eyes at being the first person to know his real name.

"Ah... Oh." Dr. Arthur cleared his throat, swallowing his heart back down into his chest. He did his best to act nonchalant. "Is that your real name? Edward?"

"No." Joker couldn't stop a superior smile from stretching the corners of his mouth upwards. "But I always liked the sound of it. Dignified, isn't it?"

The Doctor said nothing. Behind his exterior of professionalism, he was crushed. The man had been so convincing; he was irritated that he'd fallen for a trap so early on in their acquaintanceship. Perhaps he had underestimated the Joker's powers of persuasion now that he wasn't wearing all that makeup.

"_Would_ you call me Edward?" the Joker asked merrily, leaning forward in his seat. The Dr. wasn't smiling. He jotted down the word 'sociopath' with a question mark after it in his notebook.

"No." Arthur cleared his throat again. He was less than pleased, but he staunchly continued on. "So, I've been told that you've been a bit... agitated lately. Has something been bothering you?"

_A pen behind his ear. He has a black pen wedged behind his right ear._

The Joker sucked in his lips and ducked his head, eyes darting from left to right. "Well... maybe something..." he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you." The Dr. leaned forward across the desk, brows knit with concern. He watched the other man's eyes move meaningfully from side to side. He looked behind him, seeing the orderlies shifting on their feet beside the door. "Is it something private?"

The Joker nodded eagerly, schooling his features into those of an innocent child, looking up into the other man's eyes as if to say ''I wanna tell''. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He had him now, and so quickly at that. He was glad he hadn't lost an ounce of his touch.

"Ah. Excuse me, gentlemen...?"

The Doctor had risen from his seat to walk over to the orderlies and whisper to them. They at first protested whatever he was saying, but ultimately did as Joker knew they were told: they left the room. He grinned widely to himself, but his expression fell immediately back into a facade of nervous innocence when the Doctor resumed his seat across the table.

"There. Now we have our privacy." Arthur smiled again. "Would you like to tell me what's been bothering you now?"

"Yes. I really would." The Joker rose from his seat, hands working swiftly behind his back. He walked around the long table, eyes beneath his smooth brow fixed on the Doctor. The man rolled back in his chair nervously, so that he could face him. By the time the Joker reached the other man, he had freed his arms from the straitjacket and swooped down upon the stricken Doctor, squeezing one firm hand over his open mouth while the other snatched the pen from behind his ear.

"I want. My. Makeup. Back." He chuckled deeply, gleefully, jabbing the pen-turned-weapon into the terrified man's throat. "Pretty please."

The Joker gripped the slim, black pen in his itchy fingers as if it were an instrument of freedom itself. He stared at it thoughtfully before lowering his head so that his smiling lips were beside the Doctor's ear.

"Do you want to see a magic trick?"

-- -- -- -- --


	3. Fallen

Chapter Three

Fallen

Bruce Wayne was frantic, stalking back and forth in his room to the door leading out and doubling back just as soon as he reached the knob. He didn't know what to do. The breaking news story he had just seen featured another of the Joker's sick home-made video clips, live from Arkham Asylum. The reason they'd allowed him to shoot it was because he had taken a young doctor hostage, having carved the words "break your one rule" into his chest, no doubt with the bloody pen he was still holding closely to the man's throat.

Joker had insisted in his taunting, malicious way that if the Batman didn't come by for tea at noon that very day, he would kill the Doctor, and anyone else who tried to come between them.

"I know that you're wanted by other men, besides myself, now," the Joker had said with a dark chuckle, his glinting eyes boring holes into the camera. "But you'll just have to brave the dangers that be to come and see me. I'm sure you're as eager as I am to continue the little talk we were having the last time we met. You've had some time to think about what I said, and I'd like to hear your, ah, thoughts on the matter. Hahaha... And Batman." He grinned deviously, scars spreading up his cheeks. "To get to me, you're going to have to break your one, silly, pointless, little rule." He shook the petrified Doctor, yanking open the man's torn shirt so as to make his message clearer. "Those cops aren't going to let us be together without a fight, but I trust that you'll come out on top. So, come and get me, Bats. Do be careful, and make your own luck, as our dear friend Harvey used to say." Maniacal laughter echoed throughout the cell, and the camera went black.

If Bruce did as the Joker demanded, he'd be a sitting duck for the police at Arkham, and they'd find out who he really was. Then, both Bruce AND Batman would be in jail for a very long time. But he didn't want the deaths of any more people blamed on him by that demonic clown. He knew none of them had ever been his fault, and if he ignored the Joker's request this time, no more would be. But that wasn't good enough for him.

Bruce sighed, running long fingers through his thick, dark hair as he went to retrieve the bat suit from its resting place.

-- -- -- -- --

"He's coming, he's coming, he's coming, he's coming..." the Joker was chanting in a sing-song voice, hopping up and down on his heels. Dr. Arthur, who had been dressed in the Joker's straitjacket and affixed to his chair, had lost consciousness some time ago. Perhaps it was the bleeding? The Joker spun the chair around wildly, causing the blood-deprived man's eyes to roll in their sockets and flutter painfully.

"Wake up, Doc!" Joker taunted him, laughing hysterically. "You're missin' out on all the fun!"

Police lying in wait outside the locked glass door had attempted to break it open, but ceased immediately when the Joker held the Doctor in front of himself and threatened to plunge the pen into his jugular vein. All attempts at talking nice to him were ignored.

He could see it all now: Batman bursting through the doors like a black ball of fire, beautiful, sparkling shards of glass falling upon everyone like rain. He would grab the Joker and take him away from all this; he would save him from the endless misery and boredom of Arkham. It would be so much more cathartic than merely breaking out of his cell and sneaking away into the night alone.

The Joker smacked his lips and tsked. It really was too bad he didn't have his makeup on; he so wanted to look pretty for his Dark Knight after such a long time apart. Soft giggles bubbled from his lips at the silly thought. He only meant it a little, really...

Dark green eyes flicked to the clock; it was already ten to twelve. "Uh-oh, Doc," Joker said to the comatose man, dark pink tongue snaking out to swipe at his lips. "If Batman's late for our little tea party, I'm going to have to, ah, disinvite you."

He almost hoped Batman would be just a tiny bit late. He'd never killed anyone with a pen before and he wondered if it would hold up better than a pencil. He studied the instrument, twirling it around in his jittery fingers. It was sticky with the Doctor's dark red blood. He was debating on whether to stab it through Arthur's eye and into his brain or down the back of his throat when all of the lights in the building were suddenly shut off. From some distance away, the other inmates could be heard making a fuss in their cells (the entire place was in lockdown due to the Joker's little prank), and the police outside of the room began to mutter to each other in agitated tones.

"Joker, did you do that?" One of them called out cautiously.

"Not me, friend." The Joker replied easily, voice tinged with amusement. "For once, I am innocent."

"No, you're not," a familiar voice growled softly into his left ear. Chills of excitement and joy ran up the Joker's spine. He had to cover his own mouth to suppress a jubilant shout and the inevitable burst of laughter that would follow it. Batman was finally here for him!

-- --

It had been difficult to get to Arkham--or anywhere at all--while wearing the bat suit. He'd driven as far as he could in the Lamborghini (thank goodness for its tinted windows) before being forced to hide it behind a lonely and abandoned old apartment complex less than half a mile away from Arkham. He was glad the institution wasn't situated in the thick of the city, but he still prayed that no one messed with or tried to swipe his car while he was away from it. He decided that he should have Alfred pick up an old clunker for him to use in just these kinds of situations.

Bruce had snuck into the building by way of the laundry room, and once there had swiftly climbed up into the vents. After he'd pinpointed the Joker's location (the sound of that loud, incessant cackle reverberating through the walls was a great help), he made his way to the boiler room--which he had passed once in a previous visit to Arkham as Bruce Wayne to check up on the accommodations--placed a timed bomb over the electrical switches, and crawled back to find the Joker. Once the lights went out, he silently jumped down from the vent and into the room, quickly checked the Doctor's pulse (which was slow but steady) before stepping without a sound behind the madman himself. He was very grateful for the night vision installed into the eyes of his mask.

Bruce's heart was racing so fast and hard, he vaguely wondered if the Joker could hear it beating in the darkness. The way the other man jumped at the sound of his voice told him he had not heard anything else before that. He was baffled as to why Joker seemed so... happy, or excited, to be caught by him in this way, but he thought nothing of it at the moment. The police had decided to take matters into their own hands, and were doing a very poor job of trying to quietly unlock the door.

"Now, there's a Bat man," the Joker whispered, his grin leaking into the words.

"Keep quiet. You're coming with me," Batman intoned forcefully into the Joker's ear. The other man had leaned back slightly, so that his head was almost resting on Batman's shoulder, which he found rather disturbing. The winged hero moved back a couple of steps and pulled a pair of very strong handcuffs from his utility belt. As the cold metal snapped with the slightest clicking sound over the Joker's wrists, he could feel him shudder.

"Ooh, Bats. Handcuffs in the dark? Kinky," Joker whispered, affecting a flirtatious tone. Bruce's eyebrows furrowed deeply underneath his mask, not even attempting to reply to that. The Joker was behaving quite strangely, even for him. What had they done to him in here? He, of course, didn't take the man's ridiculous attempt at seduction seriously. At any rate, he hoped Joker wasn't serious...

He dispassionately lifted the smaller man (who gasped at being picked up) over his shoulder and spirited the both of them up into the vent, just as the police had burst into the room with flashlights blazing. After resealing the opening, he made his way back to the laundry room very quickly, dragging the Joker alongside him by the arm. The clown had the good sense not to make a sound while they made their escape, allowing the other man to lead him to his car and toss him unceremoniously into the back seat before he finally allowed himself to laugh, loudly.

"Oh! Oh, Bats, that was... beautiful, inspired! That was something else!" he managed to get out in between guffaws. "_You _are something else, my friend. They had no idea! They just, they just-- _idiots_! Haha! Don't you just love it?!"

"Shut up, Joker," Batman ground out, glancing at the other man in the rearview mirror as he drove. He was sprawled comfortably over the plush seating, looking around at the expensive innards of the car.

"Well, well, Batsy. This is almost as nice of a toy as your other little..." he squinted, searching for words. "Bat mobile."

"How did you know what it's called?" Batman growled back at him suspiciously.

"You mean you really call it 'the bat mobile'?" he mocked the term, laughing incredulously. Batman frowned.

"Shut up, Joker."

They drove on in silence for some time, the Joker appearing to look peacefully out of the window. He seemed very comfortable, despite the tight handcuffs he still wore. Batman was unable to keep himself from continuously checking on him in the mirror to make sure that he wasn't up to any mischief. It was very strange, seeing the Joker without his makeup on. He was not... unpleasant-looking, save for the scars, of course. Aside from them, he looked almost normal. Like any other flesh-and-blood man. But Bruce knew that he wasn't, deep down. He was his own breed of monster, a super criminal with absolutely no grip on reality, and he wouldn't allow himself to forget that.

Batman hadn't made any plans beyond getting the dangerous man out of Arkham; he hadn't had the time. He supposed he'd have to take him to the Bat Cave--though he really didn't want this man anywhere near his home--and make sure to blindfold him before getting too close. It wasn't the most satisfying idea by any means, but what else was he going to do with him? He couldn't just drop him off in a strange town, leave him there and hope he wouldn't find his way back to Gotham. If only something so simple would work...

"Aren't you glad we're friends now?" the Joker murmured in a small voice. Batman's eyes darted to the rearview mirror, his breath catching in his throat; the other man was still serenely looking out the window, a small smile playing at his lips. If he hadn't had the scars and silver bracelets on, Bruce would have sworn he looked... innocent, small, harmless. Untrustworthy, to the highest degree. He narrowed his eyes at the Joker, who surprised him by suddenly returning his gaze.

"I am." Joker's head was lowered just slightly, looking up at him through dark blond eyelashes. His expression had fluidly changed from one of innocence to one of intense focus, but the wistful smile still held. "I missed you, Batsy."

Bruce scoffed at the absurdity of the claim, determined to ignore his nemesis's manipulative prattle.

"Really, I did," the Joker insisted, almost whining. He sighed and changed his position, sitting up straight with one leg crossed over the other. "You don't believe me, do you? Or..." he leaned forward, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "You feel the same way, and you just don't want to admit it."

Bruce felt the blood run cold in his veins. Was this some sort of a trick? He was pretty damned sure that the Joker was indeed being... coy with him. He knew that it was some bizarre attempt to get him to drop his guard so that he could gain his freedom. Well, it wouldn't work.

"And I think that you missed me, too," the clown went on in that same soft tone. "You did come to get me, after all..."

"I came to save those poor people_ from_ you, not tosave _you_, you--you lunatic!" Bruce was getting frustrated, which irritated him. He didn't want the Joker to think he was getting under his skin.

The other man raised his eyebrows, letting his mouth drop open in a parody of being offended. "Did I strike a nerve, Batsy?" he asked derisively, tongue swiping out to stab at his lips. "'Those poor people', hah! Do you know how little they care for any of the patients in that hellhole? Huh? Do you know what they put them through?"

Bruce was surprised at the conviction in the other man's voice. It was the most... empathetic thing he'd ever heard him utter. "You care about the other patients at Arkham?" he tried.

The Joker sat back, seemingly astonished at the thought. He laughed the question off and shifted his position again, putting up his hands in mock submission. "All right, let's not get off on the wrong foot here, so to speak." The pointed tongue swiped across his amused mouth. "No use fighting like, haha, bats and dogs, eh?"

He paused, expectantly waiting for Batman to laugh. Bruce sneered at him and exhaled through his teeth. The Joker scowled, pouting. "No sense of humor," he muttered.

"Joker, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but let me make this clear: we're not friends, we're not working together... we're not even in the same category of humanity. Get it?"

The Joker was silent for a long moment, convincing Bruce that he had hit home somewhere in that off-kilter brain of his. He smiled triumphantly to himself. The Joker began to shift around in the backseat, and Bruce's glance in the mirror revealed that the man had pulled a deck of cards out from somewhere in his simple, hospital-issue attire and was shuffling them expertly in spite of his cuffed wrists.

"Hm. How about poker buddies, then?" He grinned up at Bruce's fearsome glare. "Do you play?"

"Shut up, Joker," Batman growled tiredly. This was going to be a long ride.

-- --

As they got closer to Wayne Manor, Bruce pulled the car over and slid into the backseat beside the Joker, who feigned surprise.

"Couldn't stand the guilt, hmm? Is this your way of apologizing? Ya want a hug? Well, it'll be a little hard with these cuffs on..."

Bruce sneered at him behind the mask, dark eyes stony. He wordlessly removed a black section of cloth from a compartment behind the front seat and wrapped it around the Joker's eyes, tying it tightly at the back of his skull. The Joker smacked his lips beneath the blindfold.

"Should I ask why you keep a blindfold in your personal vehicle?" he queried, not expecting an answer. He didn't get one as Batman returned to the front seat and continued to drive the rest of the back way to Wayne Manor. He knew the Joker couldn't see a thing through that material (he had tried it on himself once to test it) but he couldn't help feeling inexplicably tense as he parked the Lamborghini before the secret entrance of the cave. He always had to remain on guard around this most dangerous of criminals.

He got out of the car and went around to open the back door, yanking his captive roughly out of the vehicle and dragging him along into the cave behind him. The Joker staggered after him quietly, taking in his new surroundings with his remaining senses. He noted that the air was chill but dry and smelt of metal, machinery and coffee. He could hear the faint hum of more than one computer running as well as the burbling of a coffee maker. Batman stopped walking, and the sharp tapping of someone walking briskly towards them in a nice pair of shoes grabbed Joker's attention.

"Welcome back, sir," the man greeted Batman in a prim, Queen's English accent. "Is there anything I can get for you and your... guest?"

"And good day to you, my good man!" The Joker imitated the man's accent quite loudly (and rather poorly). "Care for a spot of tea, then?" he managed to spit out before dissolving into a fit of explosive laughter that hit him so hard he could barely breathe, arm hanging in Batman's firm grip as he helplessly drooped to the floor in his great mirth.

"...Quite," Alfred intoned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow at Bruce, mouthing the words 'I told you so' with a wink. Bruce rolled his eyes, ignoring the bait.

"No, I think we'll be just fine," he said, carefully avoiding speaking the butler's name aloud. He didn't want the Joker to know anything personal about him or anyone he had anything to do with. The slightest give-away would be too dangerous. "But would you mind checking my messages for me?"

Alfred knew he was asking him to check the news to see what had been reported about the Joker's apparent escape from Arkham. He nodded. "Of course, sir. Do be careful," he warned Bruce as he departed, shiny black shoes clicking away.

"Yes, do be careful with the man in handcuffs! Wouldn't want him to do any damage to poor, defenseless Batman, would we?" The Joker called after the butler, half in jest, half in anger.

"Don't underestimate yourself," Batman told him dryly.

"Too kind," Joker returned. "Hey, you wouldn't mind loosening these things up or anything, would ya, Bats? They're kind of cramping my style." More giggles.

Batman didn't answer him. Instead, he pulled the other man to a small room in the left corner of the cave that he had fashioned into a sort of impromptu bedroom for late nights or very early mornings when he was too tired to meander through the enormous mansion to his own room. The little space also doubled as a bomb shelter, so he was fairly confident that the Joker would at least experience a great deal of trouble should he choose to escape (indeed, he didn't underestimate the master criminal at all).

The Joker let himself be led by Batman, gulping in surprise as he was thrust down onto what felt like a simple cot. He heard a door latch closed and then was suddenly assaulted with the brightness of the room's light as Batman yanked off his blindfold. He squinted, rubbing at his eyes with his cuffed hands. "Ooh," he grunted, looking around the plain quarters painfully. "Nice digs, Bats. We're not sharing this room, are we?"

Bruce sneered at him. "Get comfortable, because you're going to be spending a lot of time in here until I figure out what to do with you." He dragged a metal chair over to the cot and took something small and shiny from his utility belt. "Now, when I unlock these cuffs, you'd better not try anything funny. Because I'll tell you right now, it isn't going to work. You're in my house now."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Joker replied eagerly, sticking out his aching wrists. The cuffs really were very snug.

Batman studied him for a moment, eyes boring into the other man's (who mimicked his expression back at him) before slowly unlocking the handcuffs and removing them. They really had been too tight. Bruce felt a brief tinge of guilt as he noticed angry red lines indented around the Joker's wrists. The clown stretched out his arms and wiggled his fingers, reveling in the feel of his hands' freedom.

"Gee, thanks, Batsy," he said to the other man, convincingly sincere.

Batman merely snorted back. He was reluctant to leave the room. It felt as though there was an invisible rope running out from him and into the Joker. It was an unpleasant feeling, a large knot of worry and dread filling up his chest. If he left the Joker alone, the connection would sever, and then he'd not be able to sense whether or not the man was going to do anything dangerous. He knew he'd be tormented by anxiety at the uncertainty of the situation if he was too far away, rather than relieved by the distance.

"So," the Joker started jovially. "How about that card game?"

Batman ignored him and rose from his seat, ready to leave. He was startled when the Joker reached out in a very swift motion to grab one of his wrists. His shock allowed the weaker man to pull him back into his chair. Joker didn't say anything, his face grim save for those ever-smiling scars.

"Well, what is it?" Bruce asked cautiously. The unpredictable man was making him nervous.

"I, ah," the Joker lowered his eyes, the gesture almost self-conscious. "Could use some company. Been locked up for a while, y'know."

"You were only in Arkham for two weeks," Batman said incredulously, just holding on to his disguised voice. Joker met his dark eyes again, his own green ones dancing merrily.

"Thanks to you, Bats." He grinned. He smacked his lips and tilted his head to one side thoughtfully, eyes trained on Batman. "D'you remember the last time we were together? Up on that old building, when we had that illuminating little chat?"

Bruce wondered where the hell he was going with this line of thought. Was this a sly opening before he made a move for revenge?

"Yeah," Joker said, as if Batman had answered affirmatively. "Ya give any thought to what I said?" he probed gently but expectantly.

"What was there to think about in that trail of madness?" Bruce asked honestly.

Joker forced a chuckle, his tongue continuously swiping at his lips. He focused on Batman's eyes intently, as if to bore his way into the other man's head. He was dead serious now. "You and I, Batman. We're like two sides of..." he put up a hand to Bruce's obvious anger at what he knew he was going to say. "Like two of a kind. We may come from different places, may have different experiences, may have different motives in life, but," he paused, licking his lips. He was excited, the words dropping out of his mouth more quickly as he went on. "But we react to things in the _same way. _We act before others _re_act, pure instinct, pure smarts, pure strength. We don't need to stop and think about something that isn't there to begin with!" He jabbed a finger to his head. He was almost too exhilarated to continue, he had to catch his breath. "_Purity. _D'ya see? If you weren't bogged down by petty morality and the wrongful instincts imposed upon you by this decadent society..." he let out a sharp breath and smiled, yellowed teeth glinting. "We'd be the _same man_."

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," Bruce growled, baffled by this insanity the Joker was spewing forth at him. The other man bounced in his seat, his grin nearly ear-splitting.

"Yes! Yes, you should've! You see? If you had broken that stupid rule, you'd break through _everything_! You could be more than I ever was!" He was practically shouting now. The anger had exited Bruce's body in a long, quiet sigh. He began to pity the other man; he could see that he truly believed in the nonsense he was uttering.

"Bats, I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you," Joker breathed. "I knew you..."

"Joker," Bruce stopped him, his voice firm but tired. "You fought death tooth and nail the entire way. Why would you want me to have thrown you off that building?"

The Joker's dancing green eyes lit up his entire face as he fixed Batman with an expression of awe. "Because you are the only man on this Earth who is worthy enough to destroy what I am, to stand in my place and make it even better. Bats!" He laughed genuinely, throwing up his hands. "Y'know, I liked you before, but it was when you threw me off of that scaffold that I _fell _for you!"

Bruce shook his head against the Joker's wild, echoing laughter. Silently, he rose and exited the room, bolting and sealing the door behind him by pressing a code into the wall beside it. There was no saving this man from himself. It was then that Bruce realized he had wanted to save him in the first place.

-- -- -- -- --


	4. The Little Things

Chapter Four

The Little Things

While Bruce, exhausted as he was from the day's events, fell asleep almost immediately, the Joker remained wide awake for hours longer. After Batman had left him alone, he'd calmed down enough to study his new room more closely. Aside from the simple metal chair and the rather large white-sheeted cot, there were no other furnishings and no carpet covering the naked, grey concrete floor. A bright light was built into the ceiling, but there was no on-off switch for it in the room. The only real differences from his cell at Arkham and this room was that here, there were no bars and the walls were painted forest green. This, to him, was a bit of progress, at least.

He did not look for a way out, not yet. He'd decided to give Batman a chance to see things clearly first, to let him out of his own accord. But once he realized the Bat was not going to be returning to check on him anytime soon, he quickly grew bored in his new accommodations. There were only so many times one could play solitaire and remain interested, after all.

The Joker paced back and forth in his cell, then round and round it, hugging the walls with his body. He was beginning to get antsy. There were no windows in the room, so he was unable to see outside to tell what time it was and how long it would be until the sun rose when, most likely, Batman would return to check on him. He fancied the Bat to be a "morning person" in his personal life. He himself kept odd hours, always had. He slept whenever he was tired and when he wasn't busy with more important work to do. As he wasn't tired at the moment and had nothing to occupy himself with, frustration was setting in. At least in Arkham there were always other people constantly milling about to study. Here, he had only himself and, contrary to popular belief, he did not like to be alone.

Joker threw himself back onto the cot with a sigh, adjusting his position so that he lay with his hands behind his head. Now that he was not moving, he was able to recall that he still did not have his makeup and the clothing he wore were not his own. The plain, white cotton t-shirt and pants were really not his style. He looked down at them, wrinkling his nose in distaste. When Bats came back, he was going to ask him for clothes that were more to his liking. It was the little things after all that make up the whole man.

He bit his lip sharply, realizing that Batman had never seen him without the makeup before today. The Joker had been so excited by their escape and the fast ride in the comfortable car that he hadn't even noticed the nakedness of his face. He hoped he didn't appear too boring, too normal, to Batman. The scars helped to set him apart, but there were many other people in this world with scars, even some with the same ones that he had. The last thing he wanted was to be just another face in the crowd.

Before being thrown into Arkham, every day, at least once, the Joker would mop his face with white greasepaint, paint black around his eyes and swipe ruby red lipstick across his scars and over his lips. He didn't need a mirror to do it, he was so accustomed to the routine. He ran a hand over his brow and cheeks, unused to the dry, soft feeling of bare skin there. It made him nervous, as if he were suddenly trapped under a face that wasn't his own. Why, without the war paint, he was just plain, old... what was his name again?

It didn't matter. He needed to concentrate on who he was now. He was the Joker, and the Joker wanted his face back. Immediately.

-- -- -- -- --

Bruce was gently shaken awake at 3 in the morning by Alfred, who notified him that their new guest was misbehaving.

"I'm sorry, sir, but he's been making quite a fuss down there. You know what a light sleeper I am," he joked lightly. Bruce sighed, knowing that poor Alfred likely had been keeping himself awake all night, checking up on the lunatic via the security cameras. There was no way he could have heard anything through the bomb-proof walls in which the Joker was kept prisoner.

"I'll shut him up. You get some sleep, Alfred. Don't worry," he said to the concerned butler, whose white brows were knit with concern for him. He stumbled into the bat suit, which he had left lying on the floor beside his bed, and made his way down the secret passages in his home which led to the Bat Cave.

As he unbolted the door and entered the code to unlock it, his heart sank as he remembered leaving the chair and cot in with the deranged man. All was silent as he entered the room, quickly shutting the door behind him. The Joker was grinning up at him, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the cold floor, cards from the deck he'd brought with him as well as shreds of the bedding and blankets surrounding him haphazardly. The chair and cot frame had both been completely dismantled and tossed about the small space. Batman sighed wearily. This was absolutely ridiculous, like dealing with an errant child.

"Joker..." he began dangerously.

"Bats! I really am so, so,_ so_ very glad you decided to come back early." The Joker rose, dusting bits of metal and material off of his clothing. "I need you to do me a favor--"

He was cut short by the other man grabbing him by the shirt and harshly thrusting him back against the wall. He gripped Batman's wrists reflexively, heart pounding in a delicious rhythm. He couldn't stop the manic smile from creeping up his cheeks, nor could he help perversely enjoying the tantalizing thrill of being held against his will, of the possibility of being hurt by someone stronger than himself. Those were the only times his mind and body were absolutely still and the racing thoughts ceased completely. The only times he felt the closest sensation to what others would call peace. His eyes fluttered shut, reveling in the other's tight hold on him.

"You have no right to make demands on me in my own house, especially after destroying my furniture. Open your eyes, Joker!" Batman growled, shaking the other man like a rag doll. The other man did as he was told, grin unfaltering. Bruce had never been easily intimidated, but the way the Joker was boring those vivid green eyes into his own--unwaveringly, not in the slightest bit afraid--made him want to look away. Batman never looked away first, but Joker would not blink.

Finally, Bruce grunted and threw the other man to the floor. Without looking down at him, he picked up the bits of metal and springs left over from the cot frame and chair, opened the door, and threw them outside. Their echoing clatter immediately ceased as he shut the foot-wide door on them again. "You can keep the rest," he sneered, regarding the mess scattered over the floor.

The Joker had risen slowly to his feet, leaning back against the wall, facing Batman. He sensed that the other man was about to leave, and he desperately did not want to be alone in here again. Not like this.

"Bats," he said quickly, louder than he'd meant to. He forced a small laugh, tongue reflexively shooting out of his mouth. He relaxed his tense posture, feigning nonchalance. "I had to get your attention somehow. Yelling at the top of my lungs didn't do any good, e heh..."

Now that he mentioned it, the other man did sound a little hoarse to Bruce. He grit his teeth, biting down his pride. "What is it you want?" he asked tightly.

"Now you're talkin', Batsy." Joker grinned broadly, running his tongue over stained teeth. "I'm feeling a little uncomfortable here, to be honest with ya. Not that you haven't done your best to make me feel at home, aha, but," he wrinkled his nose up in distaste. "These clothes, they're... well, they're just wretched, aren't they? And my face, I feel... a little naked." He smirked at Batman. "I'd really like it if you could pick up some white greasepaint, black paint and red lipstick for me."

"...That's not going to happen, Joker." Bruce couldn't believe the man could so easily ask this of him. He, Batman (or even Bruce), going out to the store to pick up some makeup for his good ol' friend, the Joker? There were so many things wrong with that scenario that the other man either failed to realize or ignored completely. Shaking his head, he turned to leave the lunatic in peace.

"Aw, Bats, don't go." Joker dared to grab hold of Batman's right arm insistently. When the masked vigilante reeled to face him, he allowed the desperation he was feeling to show on his face, just a little. "Please," he begged, voice just above a whisper. "Just some more color to wear and to put on my face. Please...?"

Bruce closed his eyes and sighed, gritting his teeth. When had he gotten to be such a sap?

"Don't touch me, Joker," Batman commanded, his tone rife with disgust. He rudely shook the other's hand off his arm and quickly exited the room, locking the Joker inside. He immediately marched back up to find Alfred.

Joker couldn't believe it. After he'd let Batman see a weaker side of himself, to be dismissed as if he were nothing more than a bum on the street asking the other man for money? Blood red fury ran through his veins, heating up his face. He let out an ear-piercing howl and hurled his body about the room, banging into the walls and swinging at them with his fists. When that didn't satisfy him, he began to claw at his face and body with his nails, ripping at the detested clothing and streaking his already scarred cheeks with lines of blood.

After two hours of going through this tantrum, he fell to the floor, finally exhausted. Anger still resonating in his blood, he fell into a coma-like sleep.

Meanwhile, many, many flights above the Joker, Bruce was searching through one of his large wardrobes for clothing that he wouldn't mind never wearing again. He had decided to give the lunatic some of his own clothes. He didn't know why the Joker wanted to get back into his mask so badly, but he'd asked Alfred (who, like himself, was not going to be returning to sleep anytime soon) if he wouldn't mind running down to the drugstore to pick up the makeup items the Joker had requested. Hateful, cruel creature that Joker was, Bruce believed that even the worst man in prison deserved the basics of comfort.

-- --

Joker didn't know what time it was when he awoke, or how long he had been asleep. He must have been sleeping very deeply to not have woken up at Batman's return, for, he knew it could only have been the Bat who had left the small pile of folded clothing with the little white, plastic bag on top in the middle of the floor. And he had been beginning to think that maybe Bats didn't like him! He smiled, genuinely, and scurried over to examine his new presents.

Inside the bag was a small jar of white cream that people put on their faces for certain Halloween costumes, a store brand container of sooty black eye shadow and a cheap tube of fire engine red lipstick. These were not his usual tools of trade, but they would do just fine. He giggled excitedly and rifled through the pile of dark clothes. Batman had left him a simple but high-quality black suit jacket and slacks, simple black belt and a grey and blue pinstriped dress shirt. Joker tilted his head, smacking his lips. They weren't what he would have chosen, but they'd do. He eagerly stripped himself of the detestable hospital attire and redressed in the new clothes. They were all a size or so too large, and he'd had to tighten the belt to the last notch, but overall they fit rather well.

Comfortable as the suit was, he probably looked like an (almost) ordinary businessman in it. He shrugged the thought off, sitting back down on the floor and pulling the makeup out of the small bag. The white face paint came with a little squishy, white triangle that he supposed one used to put the stuff on. He applied the cream to his face liberally, heart lightening with each swipe of the blissfully cool cover-up. The stings of pain as it made contact with the scratches he'd drawn on his face hours before made him wince with pleasure.

Finishing the application of the face paint with a theatrical flourish, he concentrated on the small container of eye shadow. He had never used one of these before or seen anyone else use them. Turning the tiny box over and squinting at it, he could find no written instructions. He shrugged his shoulders again, ripping off the plastic covering and prying open the container. Ignoring the mysterious black q-tip, he plunged his finger into the dark shadow and smeared it widely around his eyes. He batted his lashes, unused to the dusty shadow catching on them. Now on to the best part of his routine: the red lipstick.

He slid it out of the tube slowly, examining its perfect, shining red shape before closing his eyes and running it over his lips and up his scars. He doubled over his tracks, eyes fluttering with relief and joy at being back to his old self again. He smacked his lips loudly and grinned. Suddenly, he turned to find Batman standing over him, regarding him with a dubious glare. That guy sure was sneaky when he wanted to be!

"...Hi." Joker grinned, revealing yellowed teeth which were now stained with dots of red lipstick. He jumped to his feet and spun around slowly, arms out. "So, whaddaya think? Not a bad fit, huh?" He readjusted the jacket over his shoulders, eyes fixed upon Batman, looking him up and down. "You and I must be almost the same size..."

"You're welcome," Batman sneered, ignoring the other's scrutiny. "Not that you deserve it." He couldn't keep himself from staring back at the other in his old suit, hands in its pockets. He was used to the Joker in his own, odd clothing; seeing him in something normal, with that garish get-up on his face, was even more unsettling now that he'd seen the other without any of it. The darkness of the suit accentuated the brightness of Joker's face. For some reason, he appeared so much larger now that he had the makeup back on.

The two enemies stood facing each other for several moments, neither daring to look away first. It was always one battle or another, large or small, between them. Finally, the Joker chuckled, the licking of his lips seeming more in place now that they were blood red.

"What do to with me now, eh, Bats? You dressed me up, maybe you should take me out..." He stalked slowly toward Bruce and around him. Bruce turned with him, not ever wanting to let this dangerous man see his back. Joker laughed softly. "Still don't believe that I'm not going to kill you?"

"Never," Bruce retorted in Batman's voice. Joker shook his head, pretending at sadness. He clicked his tongue, intent gaze never leaving Batman's face. Bruce watched as the other man's eyes traveled swiftly over his mask, coming to rest on his lips, his chin. His nose twitched involuntarily, forced by Joker's hard stare. When had he gotten so close to him? Bruce swallowed down his nerves, not wanting to be the first to move away.

Perhaps it was because he didn't want to move first that Batman remained still as the Joker brought his hand up carefully towards his face and ever so gently ran his fingers down the visible part of Bruce's left cheek. Joker's touch was dry and cool and very hesitant, something he did not associate with the man before him. Bruce couldn't even will himself to lift a finger; the Joker's fascination with him was fascinating to observe.

For his part, Joker couldn't help himself. He couldn't help but notice that the only visibly human part of Batman was this small section of his lower face. It was right there before him, naked and vulnerable, calling out for his attention, and he just had to take advantage of the situation. (He had said before that he didn't think, but 'just _did_ things', and it was true that he'd always been very impulsive.) The skin was taut and smooth against his fingers, which were now resting in the hollow just below the other man's bottom lip.

Surprised that he hadn't been decked to the floor by the larger man, Joker's entire body quivered with triumph. He was being let in, and this was only the first step. He knew he mustn't push his luck, but a little manipulation could go a long way. He slowly ran his tongue over his lower lip, not failing to notice that Batman's hooded eyes followed the motion, and inclined his head so that his lips were beside where he imagined the man's left ear was hidden behind the mask.

"Bats," he breathed, smiling as his attuned ears caught the small sound of the other's strained gulp. He moved his head back so that he could meet those dark eyes again, their faces so close that his breath ghosted across Batman's lips. Unable to hold back a low chuckle, he placed his mouth beside the Bat's right ear. "I'm hungry."

Bruce immediately pushed the Joker away, squinting his eyes at him in disbelief. His heart was beating so quickly that it almost hurt; should he dare to believe what he thought this man_ may_ be insinuating? He was terrified, both of the Joker's intentions and of his own vague thrill of excitement in reaction to them.

Joker's chest swelled with victory; he still had it. Cocking his head to one side, he smacked his lips and raised his brows innocently at the other man.

"Well, can't a guy get something to eat around here?" he asked simply. "I don't remember the last time I had some food. I'm starving!"

Bruce almost choked on his own frustration. He was sick and tired of this man's ridiculous games. He clenched his large fists, narrowing glinting eyes at the Joker, whose smile only increased in diameter.

_Come on, come on, hit me, hit me, hit me. I want it, I want you do to it..._ The Joker stood with his feet apart, poised for whatever Batman would throw at him. He scoffed at the other man, just begging for his pent-up force to meet his body and give him some peace.

"I suppose I can scrounge up some bread and water to throw in here. Not that you deserve _that_," Batman growled at his foe before turning on his heel and abruptly leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. Fists still clenched, his chest was heaving with the effort it took to stop himself from re-entering the room and physically showing the Joker who was boss around here.

He hated to admit it, but the clown had been right several weeks ago when he'd told Batman that he had nothing to threaten him with, nothing to do with all his strength. What could one hold against a man who welcomed pain and death so openly, so fearlessly? The Joker wanted him to hurt him, and he couldn't understand why. He wondered if anyone had ever really attempted to before. Bruce was no therapist, nor was he interested in becoming one, but perhaps he could do the world a favor and try to help this man. Joker was so successful at evasion; he wouldn't let anyone near him in any capacity other than the physical realm. If Bruce managed to ignore the psychopath's many traps and his baiting, maybe he could get him to talk.

In the back of his mind, Bruce knew he wanted a real answer, not any more of the Joker's inane prattle and excuses, for why he did what he did to Rachel and Harvey. Why he had gotten so damn personal. It would take time, but he'd summon up all of his patience and self-possession to fight this man the right way, to show him how different Batman really was from the Joker.

-- -- -- -- --


	5. A Magic Trick

Chapter Five

A Magic Trick

Ha ha ha hee ho hee heh e-heh...

Doesn't even know I have it, didn't even bother to check. Batty is buying it, off to buy me lunch, haha.

Didn't want to touch me, that's why I got so close, it did the trick, always does. Nothing real, acting is a sin, nothing real in affecting emotions I don't have, nothing but doing what I gotta do, gotta do what ya gotta do, don't ya? Don't I...

Springy spring spring, bed spring, it'll have to do, gotta straighten it out first, gotta make it go the straight and narrow to work on Mr. Straight and Narrow, hahaha...

He never broke his rule for me, never touched it even for me, especially for me. I wanna make him break it, break me, break free and then he'll be everything I can't, won't, wasn't. My protege, and he doesn't even know it! He fears, I smell it, he fears what he doesn't control. Gotta understand you can't own nothin' and you'll control everything, gotta make him understand, gotta untie him from what he knows, what he fears. Don't ever apologize, can't be sorry for doing what ya gotta do.

He brought me my things, he brought me my colors back, that was kind... one of a kind, Bats. What a find, Bats. Haha... What's your name, Bats? You show me yours, I'll show you... I don't know. I don't care, don't need it, don't want it, I'm not anything but this, here, now, forever. Dancing forever, Bats and I, you said it right this time, Bats and _I_.

Me. I. Rules don't matter, no rules matter, what's here and now, all that matters! What's here in front of me, springy spring spring, thingy thing thing. I can destroy any_thing_ with only a _spring_, hahahaha...

Spring into action with my spring, gotta eat first, only polite, gotta say please, thank you, welcome... shut up. Shut up, he told me, driving me home, shut up Joker, fool, sycophant, psychopath, no! Not crazy, almost wish I was, bliss in insanity, bliss in nothingness. I can't find it, I try to simplify, simplify everything but it just gets more complex, it won't let me rest, gotta show the world, gotta show everyone who's in charge is nobody.

Where was I...

Sleight of hand, that's whatcha call it, sleight of hand, magic tricks, pick up sticks... wait... careful, careful, careful, be good at first, be nice. Words are just words, what I said wasn't nothing, wasn't anything, anything at all, just words, blah, blah, blah. Can't apologize for what's gotta be done.

Bats, Bats, Bats, in the belfry. When ya gonna come down and feed me? I am hungry, food ain't a luxury here, isn't, ain't, don't matter... doesn't...

Bats... Bats... I'm sorry. Don't forgive me...


	6. Fun and Games

pre-p.s.: I am irritated with myself that I never mentioned (or even thought to mention) a bathroom being located in or around the Joker's cell. I am very fond of detail (obviously), but I won't edit it in the back chapters unless you guys really think I should. I am leaning towards it being outside the room so Bruce has to accompany him there. I will likely mention that in the future; could you all pretend I mentioned it before? ; Thanks. And now, on to the show:

Chapter Six

Fun and Games

_Are we really that different? One or two wrong steps and I could've ended up where he is. If I had let that anger consume me..._

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. It wouldn't do him any good to allow the Joker's poisonous words to seep into his mind too deeply. It was very late, and he needed to get some rest. His prisoner was an exhausting man to deal with, not to mention an unnerving presence in his home. He could verily feel an electrified change in the air since he'd been locked in that room down in the Cave.

Alfred had been good enough to make the criminal a small meal (no frills, of course, as Bruce had insisted, and the butler was only happy to comply) for Batman to take down to him before at last being able to retire for the night. Bruce waited at the kitchen table for the older man to finish putting a plain cheese sandwich together, struggling to stay awake. Despite his valiant efforts, he finally slumped over his folded arms in the middle of a good-natured tirade from Alfred in which he compared the quality of today's cinematic experiences with those of his boyhood.

Interrupted by a gentle snore from Master Wayne, the butler looked over at the dozing man, an affectionate smile gracing his lips. He tsked, picking up the tray which held the Joker's sandwich and paper cup filled with cool water. Not wanting to disturb Bruce (who'd been so taxed by their prisoner's games already), he decided he'd take the food down himself. Knowing of the Joker's dangerous reputation, he armed himself with a small pistol he kept before venturing down to the Cave. If need be, he would threaten the murderer away with the gun, and that would be that. Alfred was tired of Master Bruce's careful handling of him as of late; he wanted to prove his capability to the younger man, which he felt hadn't diminished with age.

-- --

The Joker paced his cell like a caged lion while he waited for the Batman to return to him. His fingers were curled tightly around his new knife-like weapon (formerly a spring from the cot's mattress), imprinting its shape into his palm. He wasn't going to kill Batman (he was, after all, a man of his word), but he was quite tired of being trapped within these four, boring walls. He wanted out, and he was certain that his pointy new friend would convince Bats of his desire far more easily than his words ever could.

In a perfect world, Batman would come down with a big plate of hot spaghetti and admit that Joker was right: that they were one and the same, and it was only natural that they should combine their skills, their innate talents, and work together. Change the world. But it wasn't a perfect world, as he had learned only too well, and he couldn't wait in this lonely cage for the Bat to open his eyes forever.

_What the hell is taking him so long? Bread and water shouldn't take a half an hour to get here... Maybe he's decided to let me starve after all. Haha, I wonder what that's like, starving, hunger, thirsty misery..._

The Joker suddenly perked up at the familiar sound of the locks on the other side of the door unlatching, but it wasn't the Batman who entered the room. It was an elderly gentleman, very dignified, who was, most definitely, Batman's English servant that he had met and mocked upon his arrival. A quick glance down at the shiny black shoes he had heard but not seen before confirmed his guess.

His dark green eyes met the other man's veiled grey-blue ones and he smiled, a plan unfurling like smoke inside his suddenly clear head.

-- --

Bruce awoke with a start, forgetting where he was for a moment before slowly realizing that he was alone in the semi-dark kitchen of his home. He looked around, blinking sleep from his eyes; Alfred was not there, and neither was the Joker's tray of food. It was almost midnight, and he had probably fallen asleep almost half an hour ago. It only took him a moment to put two and two together, and he raced to the Bat Cave, yanking on his mask as he ran.

When he arrived at his destination, all was eerily quiet, and the door to the Joker's cell was very slightly open. The simple tray of food Alfred had prepared was sitting untouched outside of the room. Barely able to control his hands from shaking with the dread he was experiencing, Bruce wrenched the door open all the way and braced himself as he stepped inside the room.

He didn't bother to conceal his sharp exhale of relief when he found Alfred very much alive, his eyes glassy with fear but the stubborn set of his jaw firm, held still with his back against the Joker. The clown's left arm wound possessively around the old man's chest, his right hand pressing a make-shift shiv against the butler's jugular that Bruce immediately recognized as a bed spring. He cursed himself inwardly for neglecting to search the Joker after he'd made a mess of his furnishings. Bruce recognized Alfred's pistol lying forgotten on the floor.

"Joker," he growled softly, letting the word hang in the air as he racked his brain for an appropriate plan to free Alfred while still keeping the Joker captive.

"Batman," the Joker drawled, mimicking him with a gleeful grin. "We were wondering what was taking you so long--weren't we, Jeeves?" He directed his manic gaze to Alfred, who staunchly ignored him. Joker laughed, leaning his head on the butler's stiff shoulder in a parody of affection.

"Get off of him!" Batman began to charge at the two without thinking, but stopped in his tracks when The Joker pressed the sharp weapon further into Alfred's neck, stopping just short of breaking the skin.

"Ah, ah, ah, Bats, not so close. Guess this bloke's more important to you than just a greeter, huh? I wonder, is he your daddy?" Joker did not really expect a response, and he got none from Batman or his prisoner. His lips spread almost of their own accord, his blood coursing with something akin to euphoria. He smacked his lips, verily tasting his control over the Batman, who stood perfectly still in the doorway, awaiting his next command. He knew his captive could feel his heart beating against his back as the older man's quick and shallow breathing merged with it; oh, but this was the kind of excitement he lived for! Perhaps he'd play a bit with his true victim--the one across the room, not the one in his arms--make him squirm a little before he ended this game and told Batman what he wanted. Joker tilted his head to the side and affected a thoughtful expression.

"Look at you, Bats. You're so tense! Ya gotta loosen up. Whether or not I kill your friend here isn't really up to you. No, it's not. Like what you might call "fate", I'm unpredictable. Give me what I want and I might still fuck you over. Eheh... Just like I did with your dearly departed Miss Dawes--"

"Don't you even speak her name!" Batman roared. His gloved fists were tightly clenched and his whole body shook with barely contained rage.

Joker was loving this display of strength; the man before him was absolutely enthralling. There was always a button to push, and the reaction it caused was always delightful. In his world of by now monotonous disappointment and inconsistency in the human race, he could always count on the Batman to be there, to be angry. No feeling in a human being was more truthful than unadulterated anger, and that's what Batman was to him: honesty, purity. He truly couldn't live without him.

"Did I hit a nerve, Batty?" Joker's eyes glittered; his body also shook with the power of his emotions. It was becoming as difficult for him to conceal them as it obviously was for Batman. He felt a sadistic drive to push the other man further.

"Ya know, your Rachel was stronger than you probably thought she was," he began, voice just above a whisper. He stroked the weapon up Alfred's neck to assure Batman's silence. "Beautiful girl, too. I can see why you, ah, fancied her." A yellow grin. "But you made the right decision between her and our friend Harvey. She only got in your way, ya know. Wouldn't let you concentrate, do your job, live up to your full potential. I saved the both of you from a tiresome lifelong obsession with one blow." He couldn't help but allow a small laugh at his own joke. He lowered his head, looking up at Batman--who would have by now exploded with white-hot rage if it were possible--with a conspiratorial smirk. "Ya know, before I turned her over to the boys to get her all, hah, set up in her new digs... Ehehe, she really was a beautiful girl. I just had to steal one little kiss before we parted forever..."

"How dare you touch her, you--" Alfred started, finally speaking up before Bruce had the chance to. He had loved Rachel Dawes, almost like a daughter. He couldn't allow this murderer to put such foul thoughts into his mind, about what he may have done to her. Joker put a gentle but threatening finger before his lips, shushing him as if he were a child.

"Now, now, Pops, don't blow your top. Or, don't make me do it for you." He grinned at Batman, who was just itching to destroy him limb from limb--so earnest, so charming. "Seriously, though, if you want Mr. Monopoly here to keep helping you place hotels all over Gotham, Bats, you're going to have to negotiate with me."

Batman snarled, torn between his promise never to negotiate with the likes of this creature and his need to get Alfred back safe and sound. The war between the two choices was quite brief.

"What do you want?" he ground out, controlled fury tainting every word.

"Well! He must really like you, huh?" The Joker taunted Alfred, twisting the shiv against his neck. "I wonder why he let you down to play with me in the first place? I'll bet," he turned his feral, triumphant glare on Batman. "You fell asleep, didn't you? And ol' Jeeves toddled down here all by himself to make things easier on you. You just can't keep up with me anymore, can you, Bats?"

"Shut up!" Bruce roared, beginning to lose what little patience he had managed to hold on to, which only enflamed the Joker further. The lunatic whooped with laughter, thumping Alfred's chest in his excitement.

"Ok, ok, ok," Joker said in between chuckles, taking a moment to calm down before laying out his demands. He could tell that the Bat was very near his breaking point; once he reached it, there was little to nothing the Joker could do that would stop him from acting on his anger alone (one of the many things he admired about the man). "Here's what I want from you: I want you to drive my new friend and I to The Narrows, in that fancy schmancy sports car of yours, if you please. I'll leave him in the car with you and go on my merry way, and you two buddies can come back here and clean up the mess I've made of your place. Whaddaya say?"

Bruce's eyes darted back and forth as his mind raced. He would not let this madman back into society, but he could not risk Alfred's safety. He locked his gaze with his old friend's, knowing that the butler wanted him to take the Joker down, regardless of his own life.

"Tick, tock, Bats," Joker warned, sensing the other man's indecision. To prove that he was serious, he scratched a thin, red line down Alfred's neck with the shiv. The old man sucked in his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing himself for the inevitable. That was the last straw.

Batman flew at the Joker with such speed that the clown only managed to just get the tip of his weapon into Alfred's neck before Bruce hurled it to the floor and wrenched the madman away from his caretaker. He slammed him into the wall, one, two, three times, reveling in the satisfying slap of the man's body against the concrete.

"Get out now, Alfred!" he shouted to the butler, who gratefully did as he was told, calling behind him for Bruce to "be careful!"

"Yes, do be careful, Bats," the Joker pled mockingly, oblivious to the fact that he'd lost. His glinting eyes found Bruce's and he smirked. "If you break me, you'll never get the answers you crave, never know what I did to her before she died..."

Batman thrust the lunatic's body against the wall again as hard as he could, his lip curling with disdain. Joker frowned as his head cracked into the wall, the sharp pain of it disorienting him. His eyes rolled up into fluttering lashes, mouth becoming slack. Batman forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling it slowly in order to calm his fury. He was glad he'd knocked the psychopath out, but he didn't want--well, wouldn't allow himself--to do any further damage to him. The spot on his head he'd slammed against the wall wouldn't cause the man any permanent damage, he knew. He threw Joker's prostrate body over his shoulder and marched up several flights of stairs and through various passageways in the house.

"I'm not letting him out of my sight again for one second," he muttered to Alfred as he entered the kitchen. The older man had placed a bandage over the minor wound on his neck and was now standing before the stove as he brewed some tea (the English answer to extreme duress).

"W-What did you do to him, sir?" the butler asked quietly, still a bit shaky from his ordeal.

"Not near what he deserves," Bruce answered. He turned to scrutinize Alfred's face, concern written over his features. "I'm so sorry this had to happen, Alfred. Are you all right?"

"I am perfectly fine, sir," Alfred assured the younger man with a touch of annoyance in his voice, returning his attention to the tea. He was more than a little bit ruffled at being treated like a child by his ward. "I've made it through much worse, you know."

Bruce smiled to himself and nodded, relieved.

"Of course." He grabbed his utility belt off the table (he had thoughtlessly left it there in his haste to find Alfred) and removed the handcuffs from it that he had used on the Joker before. He fastened the silver bracelets onto the Joker's wrists and readjusted the man's prone form on his shoulder. "Well, we'll be off, then."

"What are you going to do with him now?" Alfred asked, worried for Bruce's safety.

"I'm going to lock him back in his room. Without supper," he joked lightly. Alfred nodded and smiled back at him.

"Of course, sir."

-- --

Bruce was afraid to leave the Joker alone in the cell this time, though he had searched the man quite thoroughly for any more concealed weapons. He was very thankful that the menace was still out like a light when he forced himself to feel up between his legs and open his scarred mouth in case he'd managed to hide anything else. He couldn't bring himself to finish the bodily cavity search (he was inexperienced in the procedure as well as unwilling to perform it), though it would have put him more at ease.

He gathered up the scraps of blanket and mattress the Joker had previously scattered about the room and arranged them in a corner before placing the unconscious man on top of them. Bruce leaned over him, scrutinizing the still figure. He found that he couldn't hate this man as deeply when he was quiet, unmoving. Joker's features were completely relaxed, lipstick-smudged mouth slightly agape. He was breathing softly, as if he were only sleeping.

The Joker must have felt Batman's stare, for, very slowly, he frowned and his eyelids blinked rapidly. Bruce watched his pupils dilate and contract as his eyes adjusted to the light. Once he became fully aware of his surroundings, he moved his hands to his head (which ached terribly), only to find that they were cuffed together again. Joker smirked up at Bruce from between his hands, and settled for placing them behind his head, stretching as if he had merely awoken from a nap.

"Well, hello, beautiful," he greeted Batman softly, each word sending shoots of pain up the back of his skull, which he ignored. He couldn't see anything in focus save for the great Bat looming over him. He was so still, so large, like a dark specter. Joker giggled in the back of his throat at the thought, but kept his pained eyes on the other man's deadly serious ones.

"Did you rape her?" Batman asked him suddenly, his voice low, calm.

Joker's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he knew exactly what, and who, the other man was referring to. He grinned evilly out of habit, yellow teeth glinting... But he was so tired, and his head was killing him. For once, he didn't have the energy to play games. Maybe he didn't have the heart to, either. Bats was gazing into his eyes with such a deep sadness; he knew the other man had loved this woman. He neither respected nor understood the emotion, but he respected and understood the man before him. He wasn't willing to play with his mind anymore. Not tonight. The smile slid down his face, leaving it serious and what one might call genuine in another human being, in its wake.

"No, Bats. I only kissed her. Once. Promise."

Batman frowned, and a spark of anger flickered in and out of his eyes briefly before he abruptly turned and made to leave the room. His mind was cloudy from exhaustion and the force he'd expended earlier to save Alfred. He wouldn't think any more about Rachel tonight.

"Batman," Joker called after him innocently, sitting up on his make-shift bed. His desperation not to be alone had returned to him full-force; now that he had a minor head injury, the thought was even more unsettling. He believed there was only one way to keep the other man with him.

The masked man stopped but did not turn around.

"They always say you can't rape the willing. Do you want me to show you what I did to her, and tell you how much she loved it?"

All semblance of linear thought crackled and shut off in Bruce's spent mind; he'd had all that he could take of this man for one night--for a lifetime, in all honesty. He was a vicious, manipulative freak and he was going to put him in his place, once and for all. Batman saw red.

He turned around.

-- -- -- -- --


	7. Inner Asylum or Return to the Madness

Chapter Seven

Inner Asylum

or

Return to the Madness

-- --

_Where we going, Bats? The wall again? Been there--_"Oof!"_--done that. And _again_ with the _face_?_

"_Ooh_! You need to learn some new dance moves, my friend. These are--_ugh_--a little old-fashioned..."

_Wow! Now this is new. Wow-wow-wow... ooohhhh... Didn't know you could twist my arms that far around without breakin' 'em off! Hah! Ya know... he never did bring me my food, still kinda hungry... Mmm, hard to breathe with all this blood going down my throat (he knock another tooth out?). Guess he did get me something to drink, at least. In a way!_

"Ahahaha! Agh!"

_Where am I, is this the floor or the ceiling? Floor, I guess--_"Ugh!"_--seeing as how the blood's going over, not down. Pretty color, that... What's that he's saying? 'Worthless, heartless... murdering piece of scum... no purpose, no soul...'_

"A-hahaha. _Pffff_." _How terribly immature._

_Well! Who knew a kick to the hip could crack that loud! Loudly, loud...? Yeow! Yikes! Eeyeow! 'S'like he's playing the goddamn drums on my back, ahahaha... I like this song, I like it. Good..._

"Bats... I was wrong about you, you... really are a... creative guy! Ahahaha...Ohh!"

_Spoke too soon--there he goes with the head again, ha-hehe... And again, and again, and a, a, aahhhh..._

_'S'funny... I'm still conscious... Why?..._

"How _come_, Bat? How c--_ohh_! Hahahahahaaaa..."

-- -- -- -- --

"I can't keep him here, Alfred." Bruce was breathing heavily, shedding his suit bit by bit in between gasps for air. The butler noticed dark red blood dripping from the black gloves that had just been thrown down, but he made no mention of it. "I've gotta take him back to Arkham."

"I think that's a wise decision, sir," the older man agreed softly. He was seated at the kitchen table, as he had been since Bruce had returned to the Cave with the Joker, waiting for him to come back up. Praying that he would. "How do you propose to do it?"

"...I just don't know right now," Bruce sighed, raking a hand through his sweaty hair. "But I'll think of something."

"I've no doubt of that, sir. As for now..." Alfred rose, plucking a small kettle up from the stove. "Take your tea and get some rest. You've had enough of this... madness, for tonight."

Bruce nodded, nearly falling into his seat. After all his old friend had been through tonight (this morning?), he'd humor him by forcing down one cup of the scalding, acrid tea before finally giving in to his bed.

-- -- -- -- --

_Mmm... where...? Feels like... Yeah. Still here. Spared me. Again. Pffff..._

_Ooh... too bright. Too lonely. Too_ bo_ring. Ohhhh, can't move yet, wait a minute, wait another few... There we go, can see a little better now... Well! Lookie here!_

"Hahaha, looks better in here with some red _paint_ on the walls. Cheery. A-hah!"

_'S'a good change, good change. Change my clothes, gotta... ahh, legs ain't broken, that's good, that's good. Yeow! Arms ain't broken either, maybe sprained? Huh... coupl'a ribs cracked, just a little bit, that's all right. We'll heal again, feel again, I'll be real again, soon. Hahaaaa..._

_Ya know, you're never as funny up here as you are out there. Ya know? I know, I know... _You_ know._ I _know. Not 'we', silly, _you_ know that by now. Never pretended otherwise, _did I?_ Knock it off._

_Gotta get up, gotta get moving, ssss! That hurts, it hurts, but ya gotta straighten up your back anyway. Ohh, it's nice, it's nice. Man really brings me to life, a-haha... Now._

_Time's a-wastin'. Look around, look around, think, think..._

_Wait. Where am I?..._

-- -- -- -- --

Bruce had fallen like a dead weight into sleep, but awoke early in the morning to bright sunshine peeking through his eyelids. He couldn't get back to sleep afterwards, so he lay on his back in bed, thinking over what would be the best way to get the Joker back into the asylum. It would be so nice if he could just wrap the lunatic up in chains and dump him at Arkham's front door with a little note taped to his forehead (he chuckled at the memory of Lau; very amusing, though he hated to admit that it had been his idea). It would have to read: "lock me up in solitary, and PLEASE throw away the key". They couldn't underestimate him again, and he was in no position to counsel them as to the particulars of this fact.

Speaking of counseling, why did those idiots send the Joker to therapy in the first place? Was it out of genuine concern for his mental well-being, or out of the perverse need to delve into it? Whichever the reason, it was just asking for trouble. Though, spiriting the lunatic off to Batman's basement was really not much more clearly thought out. He hated to make mistakes; not that he was a perfectionist, per se. He just always wanted--needed--to do the right thing, at all times. Was that too difficult, in all honesty? For anyone, let alone himself? He, who should damn well know better!

_Knock it off._

Bruce pressed his fingers to the sides of his pounding head (not enough sleep, again). No time to berate himself; he had to figure out how to get that psychopath out of here. He refused to contemplate what could have happened to Alfred had he not woken up sooner and came to his rescue. Vaguely, he wondered if the Joker was conscious yet...

What he had said about Rachel, true or not, was completely maddening, though it was only natural for him to feel a bit badly about the beating he'd inflicted upon the sick man--he just _had _to be sick, he _had to be_. In any case, he knew he'd do it again in the same situation, without one second's hesitation. Joker had known he would, too, he'd seen it in those fathomless green eyes. The man had been smiling, laughing, as he pummeled him. He'd made no move to retaliate, to defend himself against Batman.

What was _wrong _with this person? Not even two days in Batman's captivity, and the Joker had threatened to destroy the life of the only living person he truly loved, and the memory of a loved one he had lost. He may never find out what Joker's twisted reasoning may be for any of the things he did, and it bothered him that he was curious about it at all.

Alfred had been right: Bruce didn't understand the Joker. At all. And how he_ hated_ that! He couldn't stand not having any answers to the question of the Joker's past and true persona. Bruce had come to learn that criminals were very simplistic beings, easy to please. They were either motivated by greed or pure sadism. They cheated, stole, and killed, for a reason. The Joker did not. He didn't want money, he didn't want power, he didn't want sex...

_What _do_ you want?! What can I give you to make you just STOP THIS!_

Bruce abruptly cut off that line of thought. He would not be made into a victim, he would not beg a criminal to stop committing crimes. He took a deep breath. He had to get the Joker out of his house, as soon as possible, before the man consumed him further.

-- -- -- -- --

"Well, well, welcome back! And I thought you never wanted to see me again." Joker's smirk was what could only be described as 'feline'. He had spent his entire day drifting in and out of sleep in his cell (which would have been terribly boring had he not been rather severely injured), uninterrupted by any visitor until now.

Bruce closed the cell door behind him, his face set in stone. He refused to look directly at his bruised-and-battered nemesis, slumped bonelessly against the rear wall, as he walked toward him. He wouldn't allow himself to feel guilty for injuring a murderer with no conscience. Wordlessly, he lifted the other man by the collar of his own former jacket (which was now exceedingly rumpled), ignoring the Joker's brief mewl of pain in reaction. He drew the same black blindfold and silver handcuffs he'd forced on the clown two days ago from his utility belt.

"I take it we're moving?" Joker asked, affecting a nonchalant tone to hide his underlying anxiety at seeing these items again.

Batman didn't answer, but roughly secured the blindfold over the Joker's eyes. He scrutinized the visionless man's face; his makeup was by now smudged and fading, but definitely too conspicuous. He nodded to himself and dispassionately whirled the man around, cuffing his hands snugly behind his back. He began to lead him by an arm out of the room, pretending he didn't notice the other's intermittent whimpers and gasps of discomfort as they walked.

Joker had known Batman would still be angry, but he did not expect or understand the other man's stoic silence. He sensed a plot. "Where to, Bats?"

Again, no reply.

"...It's a secret? Hmm. You want me to guess? You want me to? Ok, heehee, I'll bite. Lessee..." His increasing agitation manifested itself as a rather frenzied sense of humor. "To the zoo? To meet your parents? To Gordon's house? Which _is_ it,_ Bats_?!"

Again, nothing. Fear seized Joker's heart with a frostbitten hand. (_Not fear, no, no. Worry, anxiety... not afraid of anything._) He had suspected it, but now felt he was positive about what Batman was going to do: throw him back to the dogs at Arkham while he was still too weak to stop him from doing it. His posture stiffened, limbs shaking from the pain, and he gnashed his teeth. He was absolutely livid.

"How dare you."

Bruce nearly stopped walking. The Joker's voice, which had been so light and jocund a moment ago, came out many shades darker in a deep and violent hiss. A prickle of awareness of just who he was dealing with tickled its way up his spine. Batman shrugged it off and pulled his unwilling prisoner along behind him. They entered the decently-sized but very plain and sparsely furnished bathroom several meters down from the cell. It was when Joker heard the sound of running water that he began to physically struggle against his captor.

_He wouldn't dare! He couldn't...! No, no, no!_

Bruce used one arm to hold the fighting man tightly against his chest as he wrenched off his blindfold. Joker's eyes stung and teared against the sudden onslaught of light, but he continued to push his body back against Batman's in an attempt to get away from the large, white sink he found himself standing in front of. Bruce shoved him forward roughly, forcing his torso over the sink as he splashed the cold water onto Joker's made up face. White, black and red ran down the clown's cheeks and chin, swirling colorfully into the drain.

Joker shrieked and shook as if the water were poisonous to his skin. He bit at Batman's gloved fingers as the man swabbed his face with the frigid liquid, but his teeth couldn't make it through the kevlar. He was trapped, and his identity was literally being washed off of his skin by a man he had respected. Batman, who had recently been so kind as to return his face to him, was now effectively erasing it. It was as though the Batman was messing with his mind, manipulating his feelings, and the Joker absolutely despised being the victim of the kinds of games he liked to play with others.

When Bruce no longer saw paint in the flowing water, he ceased his rough ministrations and turned off the sink. The assault of his face having stopped, the Joker threw back his head, spraying water over Batman, and inhaled deeply.

"How dare you! How dare you! How dare you!" He screamed over and over again, practically running against Batman's vice-like hold on his arms.

Bruce refused to be taken aback by this tantrum. Time was moving fast, and he had to put the Joker through one more change before they could leave. Growling, he gripped the back of the criminal's neck, fingers pushing into pressure points, and forced him to kneel down on the floor.

Suddenly feeling his legs give way beneath him, Joker stopped screaming, his breath now too shallow to keep it up. Tremors attacked his spinal column, and his battered ribs surged with pain. He wanted so badly to get back up and fight, but for some reason he couldn't make his body obey him.

_Okay... okay... okay... This is awful-terrible-dreadful and pain hurts more than usual, but I can't give it over now. He's going to give me back, that's what he's doing. He doesn't want them to know who I am, making it easier on himself. That's what he's doing... Gotta be calm for a little while, save your strength, you'll be back... Just listen to what he's doing..._

Joker had stopped fighting him, his face suddenly going blank. Had Bruce been too rough? He had thought no amount of force was enough to even make the man blink, let alone to subdue him... No time to think about that now. He had to finish.

Bruce retrieved the blindfold from the floor and refastened it around the Joker's head. The clown gave no reaction to suggest he either noticed or cared. Bruce placed his hands around the other man's upper arms and guided him almost gently up from the ground. With a firm hand wrapped around one of the Joker's wrists, he led him toward a wooden chair placed against the wall across from the sink. Grabbing the neatly folded pair of the white cotton shirt and pants the Joker had arrived in off of the seat, he pushed the other man down onto it. Bruce stood before the man with his legs spread apart in an offensive stance, just in case Joker suddenly regained his energy and tried to escape him. He unfolded the clothing and tossed it over one shoulder.

This was going to be the most dangerous part of the procedure: he would have to remove the Joker's handcuffs, undress him, and redress him in the white scrubs. He got out the key for the cuffs and drew in a deep breath.

"Joker."

The other man's very slight jolt at the sound of his voice reminded him that he hadn't spoken aloud for a long time.

"I need to change your clothes," he began gruffly. "Now, I'm going to un-cuff you so I can do that. If you make one wrong move... Let me just say that your body can't take much more punishment."

The Joker said nothing and made no movement. Bruce was becoming vaguely concerned with this almost catatonic behavior--was it a trick? He knew he could handle the clown if it was; Joker was too weak to do any damage to him at this point. He grabbed the man's left shoulder and pulled him back up to stand before him.

The Joker was several inches shorter than him, and more than a bit smaller in body. His pale face remained expressionless, save for the permanent scarred grin stretched across his cheeks. Without the usual maniacal smile, he appeared unthreatening and almost diminutive in general. His once animated eyes were disturbingly blank. All the same, Bruce held his breath as he reached around the man to unlock the cuffs.

Still, nothing. The only movement Joker made was to allow his arms to fall limply at his sides. Bruce began the process of undressing him by pushing his old blazer off of the other man's shoulders and pulling it down his arms before tossing it carelessly to the side. With some difficulty due to his heavy gloves, he unbuttoned the pinstriped dress shirt and removed it in the same manner as he had the jacket. The Joker's revealed flesh was lightly muscled and trim, dotted in various spots with what Bruce immediately recognized as scars created by knives. Some were jagged and raised while others appeared neat and smooth.

He couldn't help but notice the evidence of the beating he'd given the other man the day before. Purple and red bruises blossomed like dark flowers up the right side of Joker's faintly visible rib cage, over his left upper clavicle and down his lower right hip bone. Smaller blue and violet hued marks riddled the expanse of the man's bare torso and wiry arms.

Bruce hated himself for feeling guilty that he'd caused another such harm, despite the fact that the clown had practically asked him for it. He shot his gaze downward, focusing on the black slacks Joker wore. He was irritated to find that he was hesitant to remove them. Despite his multitudinous crimes and reprehensible nature, the Joker was, after all, just another man. Not unlike himself.

Bruce forced his fingers to undo the pants and tug down the zipper, the sounds of which echoed in the silent room. He felt the Joker's breath hitch in his throat.

Could the lunatic actually be shy? Nervous? A smirk of disbelief squirmed over Bruce's lips before he could squelch it. The thought of the notorious criminal being bashful made it easier to pull down his pants and get him to step out of them. However, he found his eyes darting about the room, attempting to focus on anything but his now nude arch nemesis as he quickly helped him into the white scrubs.

The Joker was so relieved to be dressed--even if it was in that detestable ensemble he'd immediately recognized as his duds from Arkham Asylum--that he allowed himself to be turned around and almost offered Batman his wrists to be placed back into the tight handcuffs. Having his face taken away by his enemy had been infuriating enough, but the humiliation that went with Batman's newfound knowledge that underneath his clothes he was just any other flesh-and-blood man was enough to make his eyes tear behind the blindfold.

The Joker remained in a horrified stupor as Batman marched him through the Cave. When they reached the parked Lamborghini, Bruce removed a keychain from his belt and pushed a button on it which opened the trunk of the car. He would take no chances this time.

The Joker's eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat; he recognized that sound. He let out an animalistic shout of protest and fought Batman with every ounce of strength he still possessed in his broken body, flailing his limbs and twisting wildly in an attempt to escape.

Bruce struggled with him for several moments, easily dodging his blinded foe's sharp kicks. It was as though the keychain had unlocked the Joker's mind as well as the trunk of his car. Handcuffed, blindfolded and battered, the Joker's revolt only prolonged the inevitable, and Batman was finally able to grab him around the stomach and fold his reluctant body into the trunk. He let out an anguished wail of defeat as the roof crashed down over him. In the darkness the tantrum continued with Joker hurling himself against the confines of the vehicle, fingernails scrabbling about in search of its weakness.

Bruce stood and stared at the trunk for a moment in disbelief. He was shocked by the way his enemy could completely shut out the pain of his injuries in order to resist being trapped. Joker was moving as though there was nothing wrong with him at all. It was almost superhuman.

"It was on the goddamn _cheek_, Bats!" Joker was yelling in that dark voice. "I only kissed her_ on the cheek_! Let me_ outta here_!"

Bruce exhaled in a relieved shudder. Of course, the confession wouldn't change anything. Might not even be true; a trapped criminal would say whatever it took to be set free. Still, he allowed his mind to believe that it was the truth, to believe that Rachel had not been molested further before she died.

Now that his nemesis was imprisoned out of his sight, he began to remove the bat suit, piece by piece, leaving it in a neat pile on the floor. He removed a crisp pair of blue hospital scrubs (small, white letters embroidered into the shirt read ''George Donovan, RN''; Donovan had been an old friend of Alfred's, whom he had asked to procure this ensemble for him) and plain, white sneakers from underneath the Lamborghini's front seating and dressed in them. He tied a white surgical mask over his mouth and nose and covered the majority of his hair with a blue surgical cap.

Mustering up all of Batman's fortitude for the journey back to the madhouse, Bruce climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.

-- --

He wasn't sure if the Joker had actually calmed down in the trunk, or if he just couldn't hear him or feel the vibrations of his movements during the ride. He was speeding around the various twisting roads that made up the back way he'd taken from Arkham just a couple of days ago. It was late evening and almost pitch black out, as there was no moon that night. Perfect.

Now that he was returning with the much-wanted cargo he'd stolen from the asylum, Bruce felt very calm and at ease despite the danger of the task at hand. The police still believed that the Joker had escaped from Arkham alone, and there were many more cop cars than usual scouring Gotham city in their search to reclaim him. He had to give back the criminal without being seen or suspected. Batman was in enough trouble already without Gotham linking him to its Clown Prince of Crime.

He dared to park in a darkened section of the asylum's back parking lot, shutting off the sports car's engine. Taking a moment to survey the lot and assure himself they were alone, Bruce exited the car and moved swiftly around to its back. He opened the trunk without preamble, but was fully prepared if the man within it decided to try to make a break for it. Were he not "in the zone", he would have been surprised to see the Joker laying limply on the floor of the trunk, his features expressionless as they had been before when he'd changed his clothing. Bruce pulled the unresisting man out of the trunk and checked the handcuffs to make sure they were still secured tightly; they were. He knew Joker only needed so much as a twig to get himself out of a pair of cuffs. Just to be extra safe, he had brought along a small but powerful taser to keep the madman in line. One zap and the Joker would be flat out on his back.

"We're back at Arkham, though I'm sure you know that by now. I'm going to walk you in there, and see if they can handle you better this time around. Just be quiet and don't try anything funny," Bruce growled in his Batman voice, pressing the taser to the small of the Joker's back in warning as they crossed the parking lot.

Joker remained silent (though, normally, he'd jump at the opportunity to make a snappy retort to Batman's last sentence) and walked obediently where he was guided. He looked and behaved as though he was merely a shadow of himself, unable to speak or act of his own free will.

Accustomed to the man's mania and erratic mannerisms, it was more than a bit unnerving to see him this way. Bruce suspected that, as before, he was merely lying in wait within his own body until an opportunity presented itself.

He led the Joker to the laundry room located at the back of the building (where he had snuck in the last time he was there). Bruce pressed an ear to the thin crack between the large double doors, listening for any sound of humanity inside. Hearing only the hum of a dryer or two running, he disabled the lock on the left door using the taser he'd brought. He winced as it emitted a fairly loud buzzing sound, but quickly pushed open the door and drew the Joker inside beside him. No one was there. He quickly removed the other man's blindfold, watching him closely as he squinted in the bright fluorescent lighting. Joker's eyes were sharp and observant once more, but his visage and manner remained dull. Still waiting, Bruce presumed.

They walked briskly through the laundry room and then up a long, white hallway. It was silent, save for the Joker's shallow and wheezing breaths, and empty, save for a couple of hospital orderlies passing them. One paid them no attention and the other raised an eyebrow at Bruce as he rushed by; apparently no one in the hospital had need of a surgical mask or cap. Bruce was relieved the man hadn't asked anything of him. Suddenly, the Joker chuckled softly, causing Bruce to nearly leap out of his skin.

"That's Ned," Joker said in a low, amused voice. "Guess he didn't notice me. If he had, he'd do that funny, jumpy, little blink he always does with his eyes when he sees me. Hehehe... Y'know, you can even see the idiot's Adam's apple bob when he's nervous."

Bruce glared at him obliquely, continuing to walk on. He had to find the correct ward (he was looking for "Criminally Insane"), and he hoped the Joker would behave until he located it.

"Oh, we have several more to go, yet," Joker drawled tiredly. "It isn't written down, but they put the most _dangerous_ people at the very end. Can you 'magine that? Me, _dangerous?_"

Bruce exhaled through his nose, ignoring the other man. It wouldn't do to speak in his concealed voice now, in case others might hear him. Besides, he didn't want to encourage the lunatic. He felt the Joker's eyes traveling over the side of his face that was visible to him, and hoped to God the clown had never paid attention to any tabloid or news story featuring his picture as Bruce Wayne.

"Dark hair. I _imagined_ you'd have dark, dark hair..."

Bruce grunted and shot a look of intense irritation at the Joker. His gaze locked with the other man's for a split second, and he watched helplessly as those darting green eyes took his in completely. He abruptly turned away, cursing himself inwardly. He realized he had just offered the Joker more naked skin to memorize.

"Oh, Bats, I told you, I don't wanna know who you are," Joker told him in a tone devoid of energy and emotion. Bruce wondered why he bothered to keep up this act; he had plenty chance to strike out now, while no one else was near them.

At last they reached the correct ward, the one at the very end of the hospital. A copper panel built into the wall beside the locked door read "Criminally Insane" with a small code inscribed beneath it that Bruce guessed--if Joker had not been lying to him--signified the most dangerous patients. Bruce studied the lock, which required a special card to open, and knew that his taser would not do any good here. A large clock above the door told him that midnight was drawing near, which was the time he knew the shifts would change and too many people would be milling about for him to stay any longer.

He decided that he would remove one of the Joker's handcuffs and attach it to the metal bar on the door. Not the best plan he'd ever come up with, but he hadn't had nearly enough time in which to study the building. He spun the Joker around and made to unlock the cuff on his right wrist.

"Joker, the shifts are changing in five minutes," he growled into his ear. "You won't get far if you manage to get out of these."

The mask-less clown kept still while he fixed the cuff onto the door, watching his face the entire time. Bruce met his gaze once more. It seemed as though the Joker's eyes were the only living things left in his body at that moment, so electric were they in comparison to his sagging, careless posture. Despite his intense hatred for the murderer, he found himself fascinated by the enigma that he was.

"Joker, who are you?" Bruce asked him without thinking, just managing to hold onto Batman's voice. The other man smiled sadly, the most genuine expression Bruce had ever seen grace his twisted features.

"I'm nobody, Bats," he whispered. "But I'm flattered you cared to ask."

Taken aback, Bruce sneered at him and turned away, practically running back down the hallway while the Joker bored holes into his shoulder blades with those searing green eyes of his. Suddenly the empty room erupted in sound, bursts of the Joker's old, familiar cackling laughter chasing him as he broke into a sprint.

"Thanks for dropping me off, _Batman_!" Joker shouted at the top of his lungs. "_Yes_, I said _Batman_! Batman, Batman, _Bat_-maaaaan!"

An ear-piercing alarm followed Bruce out of the laundry room. By the time he reached the car, he felt as though his lungs were ready to burst. Great; now he'd have to get a new car and report this one as stolen, in case it was spotted and linked to Batman. He had really liked this Lamborghini.

_Damn that bastard!_ He may have gotten the last laugh on him tonight, but at least the Joker was now out of Bruce's "dark, dark" hair.

-- -- -- -- --


	8. Foiled

Chapter Eight

Foiled

Batman was running at top speed down a filthy alleyway in the Narrows, which was lit dimly by crackling, yellow street lamps. Hot on his pursuit were at least a dozen policemen led by Commissioner Jim Gordon. Inexplicably, each time Batman looked behind to gauge their distance, they were closer and closer to him. He didn't understand how they'd managed to catch up, and he began to panic as he realized he didn't remember where he'd parked the Batmobile.

He didn't understand why he was so slow tonight, what was wrong with his memory. Panic turned to full-on fear and he had nowhere to go as Gotham city collapsed all around him. He turned around again to find himself surrounded by the police, their eyes replaced with balls of orange-red flames. Jim Gordon opened his angry mouth to let out a wordless scream, spitting fire into Batman's face.

Next thing he knew, he was locked up in a pitch black cell in Arkham Asylum, naked and covered in a cold sweat. The terror he'd experienced increased in wave upon wave of unbelievable anxiety. He hadn't been this frightened and helpless since childhood, in the months after his parents had been murdered. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, but he could hear other patients, _dangerous_ ones, milling about and mumbling to themselves outside of his cell. He suddenly realized that he was in the last ward of the Criminally Insane section.

"I'm not crazy! I don't belong here, let me out!" he shouted. The mocking laughter of the other inmates was the only answer he received. Tears ran down his cheeks like rainwater. He felt as though his heart had shriveled up in his chest and was about to die, taking him with it. He curled in on himself and waited for it to happen.

Then he felt a warm, dry hand on his shoulder. His eyes scanned the darkness but he still couldn't see a thing, only heard the gentle breathing and rhythmic heartbeat of another person beside him. Those sounds became louder and louder until they drowned out the raucous laughter outside.

"You're not alone. I'm in the same cell," a male voice told him softly. Its tone was underlaid with amusement but somehow remained warm and comforting to Bruce. He knew that voice.

It was the Joker. He wrapped his long arms around Bruce's shivering frame, drawing their bare bodies close together. Abruptly, Bruce's anxiety left him in a long exhale. He pressed his forehead to the other's invisible one and smiled. In the blackness, he knew Joker was smiling too, and his scars were gone.

-- --

"Master Bruce!"

"Wha--?" Bruce shot up in his bed, startling Alfred, who was standing beside him looking rather upset. "What... What's wrong?"

"Everything is just fine, sir, but it's nearly noon. I know you don't appreciate my waking you these days, but I imagined you didn't want to sleep this late."

"Noon? Damn it," Bruce sighed. "Thanks, Alfred. I don't know, I guess I really needed the rest."

"I suppose so, sir." The old man smiled, a touch of mischief glinting in his eyes. It was almost enough to cover up the concern that still peeked out behind it. "You know, you had a look of intense discomfort on your face, the same one you have on when you get stuck at one of those charity balls you detest. That what you were dreaming about?"

Bruce's cheeks flushed as the dream returned to his memory in vivid flashes. "No, I... I really shouldn't say." He grinned wolfishly at Alfred, hoping the old man bought his insinuation. "Well, let me take a shower, and then I'll join you for breakfast, hm?"

"Very good, sir." Alfred nodded and went about tidying up the bed as Bruce wandered to the bathroom. The butler looked after his ward with pursed lips; he didn't buy his explanation for why he had been sleeping so fitfully at all. He was worried that the younger man's nightmares had returned, the ones that had haunted him throughout his childhood and youth.

He knew that Master Bruce had undergone intensive training to remove all the fears he possessed, but what kind of a man truly had no fear whatsoever?

-- -- -- -- --

The Joker had been assigned to a different cell than the one he'd had last time he was in Arkham Asylum. This time, he was in a white, padded eight by twelve room which contained a small cot, sink and toilet. The fifteen-inch-thick iron door had a small barred window at the top that only opened from the outside, and a small slot at the bottom for his meals to be passed through to him, also only opened from the outside. The idea was to allow him as little contact with the hospital staff or other inmates as possible.

Again, the Joker hated to be alone, and craved human contact as much as he despised humanity in general. His mind was almost constantly being pulled in such opposing directions. Since he'd dedicated his life to chaos, he had saved himself from having to make difficult decisions one way or the other. For, with anarchy and spontaneity, there were no choices offered or even available to torment a mind that was barely comfortable in its own shell of a body.

The only times he saw or spoke to other human beings was when a group of orderlies (new policy: three or more to supervise him at a time) came in a few times a week to search his room in case he'd managed to hide away one of the plastic sporks he was given with his food, or to lead him to the showers. Of course, his wrists and ankles had to be cuffed for the duration of their time together. The Joker hadn't been given a television, radio or even so much as crayons and paper with which to occupy his time, so he couldn't help but look forward to the orderlies' visits. Although, truth be told, most of them were gruff and dull and dreadful conversationalists; Joker saved up his funniest one-liners and quips for them to hear, and he hadn't gotten a single laugh out of any of them yet.

And so Arkham's boring routine went on. The Joker spent his time drinking lots of water from the small sink (the food there was terrible--reheated canned goods and processed fruit in little cups--and Joker left the majority of it untouched), pacing his cell, and thinking. Today had been a good day for the latter. He'd woken up, though he wasn't sure at what time, with his mind alert but his body still tired and unwilling to rise from his bed. Joker was rarely patient or calm enough to simply be still and think, but he was also unable to effectively quiet his constantly churning mind. It rambled on to him if he had no one else around to speak to aloud.

He would rather have been sequestered in the Bat's cave of mystery than locked away here in this white-washed prison. His tongue stabbed at the corners of his mouth as he recalled how Batman had betrayed him. If the man had just sat down and gave him a chance to explain his philosophy, tell him why he did the things he ended up doing, things would have ended up differently. The Joker had a way with words, he was a spinner of stories; he would not ever just stumble into so meaningful a topic without preparing his listener beforehand.

The Joker's philosophy was composed of several simple concepts. Basically, it was that nothing existed outside of one's own mind, and each person's reality was different from another's. They were told to share the same reality as everyone around them by "the system", but Joker had long ago learned to think outside of the box. He believed in nothing but himself, and he was capable of everything. Anything was possible, and nothing was truly real. There were no consequences, and no one ever _had _to do anything. There were no morals, no ideals, no standards and no God.

Despite his openness to explaining himself to others, he had come to realize over the years that people didn't take his words at face value. The only way to break through to them was to physically show them what they couldn't understand. Yes, physicality, things born of the senses, were the only things human beings could be made to understand.

Sure, a few people here and there (often former residents of mental hospitals or asylums like the one in which he currently resided) got it in elementary terms, but he'd yet to meet another person who really and truly _knew_ what he had come to understand. He had thought the Batman was worthy, was capable, of understanding, but he'd abused his trust, tried to erase him and sent him back to this cruel, cold world, alone. Joker's nose twitched as he recalled the way Batman had scrubbed his face naked and clean, humiliating him.

Even the changing of his clothes hadn't been that horribly demeaning. He shifted onto his back and threw his arms loosely upon the pillow over his head. His eyes began to lose focus as he immersed himself in the memory. Bats had been very polite during that part, even kept his eyes averted.

_Such a gentleman. _Joker smirked to himself.

He had not been ashamed or afraid of his nude body being seen; it was just skin over muscle and bone, nothing more, nothing less. No, the upsetting thing about having been naked in front of the great Bat was how powerless he'd felt, how helpless. It had been so long since he'd been out of his own control and completely under someone else's power. His heartbeat quickened as he recalled those alien feelings that Batman had wrung so forcefully from him.

He didn't revel in control the way Batman so obviously did, but he had always tended to possess it. It was easy to gain the upper hand in the situations he got himself into, natural for him to tell others what to do and how to do it. He realized that it had felt... relieving, in a way, to have someone else make decisions for him. True, he didn't at all like the ultimate decision Bats had made in sending him back to this hellhole, but... He licked his lips and swallowed.

There had been a moment--a few split seconds, really--when Batman had met his eyes. It was while Bats had been tying the sash of his white, cotton pants. His eyes were so dark they appeared almost black, and they were terribly stern. So uncontrived and honest that they literally stopped his breath in his throat. Joker couldn't remember the last time he had shared the gaze of another human being with no pretense behind his own eyes, no hidden agenda, no secret plot. Not even a shred of humor. He'd nearly forgotten who and where he was under the spell of Batman's eyes. They'd demanded his complete compliance, and Joker had found that he hadn't had any choice but to give it.

He'd looked away first, which was a definite sign of weakness. It was a disturbing memory, all-around, and he wasn't used to being confused by anything, least of all himself.

He frowned and shook his head, turning over on the squeaky cot with a sigh so that he lay on his side. He sneered at the locked and bolted door which ultimately kept him prisoner in this dull, little room.

_This place has _gotta_ be the most _bo_ring joint in the city. Can't take this much longer, but they really have me cornered, hate to admit it. An opportunity _will_ arise, it all-ways does. Gotta use the _people_ against them_selves_... Wish they'd at least give me a deck of cards to pass the time. Ha ha... guess they figure I'd find a way to use 'em against them. They're catching on to me. Can't have _that_. Better be reeeal creative this time. You'll think of something. You all-ways do._

-- -- -- -- --

Bruce had been standing motionless in the shower for at least fifteen minutes after he had finished washing, arms wrapped loosely around his muscular frame. He faced the strong jet of piping hot water, lost deeply in thought.

He was replaying that horrifying dream over and over in his mind, almost unwillingly, as he searched for some meaning in it. The red-eyed policemen must symbolize his fear of being arrested as Batman by Gotham P.D. That they'd caught up to him so easily and he'd forgotten where he'd parked the Batmobile must signify... did he doubt his own strength? Doubt the power of his mind? He didn't think so, but perhaps on a subconscious level he feared the loss of those faculties that he so depended on. The majority of the dream was quite easy to pick apart.

But, being naked in a dark cell with the Joker, embracing... that part unnerved him considerably. More than it should, he believed. It wasn't real, of course, wasn't any kind of premonition that he'd be thrown into Arkham with the likes of that madman. Perhaps having been rushing around in the far-from-pleasant asylum with the Joker had been more disturbing than he'd realized. Maybe he was just too damn tired, that he would let such an occurrence needle at him to the point that it haunted his dreams. Or, created his nightmares.

Bruce knew that there was no way he would ever _embrace _the Joker, or anything that he stood for. That must be what was really bothering him about the whole thing: he worried that his embracing the criminal signified an acceptance of Joker's twisted ideals, or an underlying belief in them. Being in such close proximity to the Joker must have taxed his sanity more than he'd known, and so he dreamt of being caught, accused of being crazy, and finding solace in insanity itself in the persona of his nemesis. It could all be explained away quite logically. Nothing to get so worked up about.

Bruce drew in a shaky breath and finally turned off the shower.

-- -- -- -- --

"Hey, Joker!" The almost chipper call of a large, middle-aged orderly known to the inmates only as "Jeff" infiltrated the cell, followed immediately by a fist banging against the door three times. "Comin' in!"

The Joker furrowed his brow and rolled over in bed. He had been sleeping soundly, which rarely occurred, engaged in a beautiful dream involving an unusual usage of top-notch cutlery. He knew why Jeff was here: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are "shower days", and Jeff, being particularly strong and having worked in this ward for over a decade, had been assigned the privilege of leading the team when they came to take him to the empty washroom. He wondered if any of the other guests got to shower in privacy (save for the presence of the hired goons, of course) as he did.

Though he was reluctant to get up today, he always looked forward to shower days. Jeff surprised him by being a rather pleasant, even respectful, individual, and to get to the washroom he had to be escorted past the recreation center, which was a dingy little room that included an old pool table, a couple of outdated board games and a television set. He never tired of the reactions of the other inmates he met while being led through the rec. center: some gasped and hid, others jeered and cursed, and one guy called Bernie always applauded him. Very amusing display, altogether.

Meanwhile, Jeff had made it to his bed and was peeling the sheets off of his prone form while several more youthful orderlies looked on nervously from their places at the door.

"Rise and shine, buttercup."

"Ha, ha, ha," Joker intoned mirthlessly. He sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his tired eyes before focusing a mock-irritated expression on the grey-haired orderly. "Jeff, my friend, can't this wait?"

"You know the rules, Mr. J. Now, be nice and hold out your hands for me." Jeff dangled a pair of silver handcuffs expectantly.

Joker did as he was asked and smirked; he liked Jeff's funny, little nickname for him (he didn't think anyone had ever called him "Mister" anything before). Now, if the other hospital personnel were this polite, maybe he'd not feel the need to frighten them with anecdotes about his scars or by extolling the many creative uses of knives.

"Feet, please," Jeff was saying as he knelt down before the Joker, who was tickled by the other orderlies' tense stares in their direction. He received an immense, heart-pounding thrill from being feared. He raised a questioning brow at them, sending their eyes scattering in other directions like leaves on a harsh wind, while Jeff affixed cuffs that were attached with a 20-inch chain to his ankles.

"Ready to roll, Mr. J?"

"Uh, sure, Jeff. Shall we?" Joker asked with a simpering smile and a smack of his lips, offering the orderly his arm. Jeff grabbed hold of his elbow and they exited the cell, the other attendants hastening to get out of their way. They were always content to follow the two, afraid to get too close to the infamous criminal. Joker could almost pretend that Jeff and he were just a couple of pals out for a leisurely stroll... through an insane asylum.

As they trooped down the long hallway, nurses, doctors and patients alike moved aside swiftly. Joker couldn't help but to grin and nod at them as though he were some kind of royalty and they, peons at his feet. They journeyed through the vast, foul-scented kitchen and then finally arrived at the door to the rec. center. One of the younger orderlies zipped past Jeff and the clown to warn his co-workers within the room of Joker's impending entrance, so that they could keep closer eyes on their own charges. With a nod from the messenger boy, Jeff, the Joker and their entourage resumed their march amid the usual cacophony of gulps and slurs.

"Gooood af-ter_noon_, Bernie," Joker drawled at his number one fan, who was clapping and whistling at him as though he'd just performed the starring role in "Rigoletto".

If he had not been distracted by the television set suddenly being turned up in order to better hear GCN's afternoon program, he would've been annoyed to see Bernie being cuffed on the back of the head by a disgruntled attendant in an attempt to shut him up.

"Wait a minute, Jeff," a youthful member of Joker's attendance was saying. "Bruce Wayne's on the tube."

"Ahh, who cares about that rich, pretty boy and his stupid charity balls," another of the boys scoffed at the first. "Obsessed, I tells ya. You ain't never gonna be in his fancy shoes, Mike."

"Would it kill ya to be optimistic, Don? Hold tight for a few, Mr. J, let the kid see this one story..." Jeff was saying.

But the Joker hadn't heard a word. His keen eyes were trained on a close-up shot of the handsome billionaire as he was being interviewed about some plan to build a Girls' and Boys' Club in the Narrows. Joker wasn't listening to him, either; he was completely focused on the composition of Mr. Wayne's face. Namely, his eyes, his mouth, his chin, his jaw. That dark hair...

"No," Joker whispered breathily. "He can't be!"

"What's that?" Jeff asked him, only to be ignored by his patient, who had begun to chuckle to himself. He was beginning to attract the attention of others in the room. Jeff furrowed his brows; the man was certifiable, for sure, but he usually behaved for him. "Mr. J..."

The Joker continued to stare at Bruce Wayne on the television screen, his laughter quickly becoming hysterical and crescendoing until all eyes were centered fearfully on his doubled up form.

"Boys, let's go," Jeff instructed the Joker's entourage firmly. "Dave, go to the nurses' station, tell them Mr. J needs a sedative."

The boy nodded and sped off while the others closed ranks around the clown. As Jeff all but dragged the Joker from the room, the only other sound aside from the boisterous laughter was Bernie's enthusiastic cheering.

"I never forget a face, Bats, I've got you now!" Joker was shouting triumphantly to no one in particular. "You're as good as _mine_! A-HAhahahahaha!"

"What's the problem?" A stout, red-haired nurse asked Jeff as she bustled towards them, pushing a small cart that was laden with various medications and medical instruments.

"I dunno, Janice, he just, he was quiet one minute, and then the next he's off laughin', shoutin' about seeing bats or somethin'. I think he's having an episode," Jeff answered while still struggling to hold the Joker still. The nurse nodded, plucking up a small vial of clear liquid from the cart and drawing out a specified amount into a syringe.

"Hold him as still as you can," she said. "I need his arm."

Jeff wrapped his arms firmly around the Joker's chest and neck, stopping just short of choking him, while two of the other orderlies leaned into him on either side, one securing his right arm behind his back as the other wrenched his left arm out towards the nurse.

This restraint forced the Joker's mind away from Bruce-man and into the present. He began to struggle against the men, heart rate increasing exponentially. If he hadn't been so lost in visions of victory and--he hated to admit to it, but--revenge against the Batman, he wouldn't have been this disconcerted by his current state of affairs. He hated surprises (another contradiction of his professed beliefs that he couldn't train himself out of).

"H-hey," he almost whined. "What in the hell are ya doing? Knock it off!"

Two more men joined the team holding Joker still, and when he continued to flail out of their grasps, another two joined them. Finally, a total of nine men (three at each arm, plus one rolling the vein the nurse planned to stick, two at each of his legs, and Jeff at his back, securing his head) managed to keep him still enough for the nurse to inject the drug into him.

He howled like a wounded beast as he felt the cold liquid enter his system. The impending loss of control ate at his sanity (which he knew to be intact, despite evidence to the contrary) and sent him into a panic. He roared and fought his captors anew, teeth gnashing at the air and limbs trembling with fury. More orderlies piled onto him until he found himself face-down on the cold, clammy linoleum floor. He let out one more ear-piercing scream of anguished defeat before blackness crashed like a tidal wave over his consciousness and he passed out.

-- -- -- -- --

Bruce Wayne loosened his tie and undid the first three buttons of the dress shirt he wore. He fell back on an oversized couch in the large and lavish quarter that he and his butler called "the T.V. room" and began to remove his shoes. It was only midday, and he was already feeling drained. He had just returned from a monthly meeting with Lucius Fox and his assistant at Wayne Enterprises, during which the company's dealings and finances were discussed in great detail. It was important to him that he stay on top of these things, though he trusted Fox implicitly with his affairs.

Alfred entered the room carrying a tray with a mug of steaming, hot coffee on it, relieving Bruce's mind from thoughts of his inherited company. He smiled at the older man who was often such a comfort to him.

"Thanks, Alfred," he said as he accepted the mug. "Won't you sit down, have a cup with me?"

"Thank you, sir, but I have your lunch in the oven. I thought I'd treat you to something special this afternoon," the butler said with an affable smile that Bruce couldn't help returning. The man still spoiled him, but he wasn't complaining.

Bruce settled further back into the couch and closed his eyes, thinking he might take a little nap before lunch. Alfred was halfway out of the room when he turned on his heel and crossed back to his ward, withdrawing some papers from his pocket.

"I almost forgot, Master Wayne. Here's your mail for today."

Bruce smiled at him again and nodded his head in thanks. For an infamous billionaire playboy, he didn't get much mail. _Bill... junk... junk... phone bill... what's this?_

Bruce frowned at a letter that was addressed to a Mr. U. Ermine. Not only was that a very strange name, but it most definitely didn't belong to anyone in this household. However, the address was correct. Glancing at the return address, he did a double take; it was from Arkham Asylum. The only people he knew in Arkham Asylum were one Dr. Jonathan Crane and that psychopath, the Joker. He couldn't imagine that either one of them would have dared to write him a letter.

Bruce decided to open it because he knew this city backwards and forwards, and there was no other address even remotely similar to his in the vicinity. He sniffed at the message and pressed down on the envelope, to make sure it contained nothing dangerous, before sticking his finger under the sealed flap and ripping it open.

There was only one page of thin, unlined paper inside, upon which several paragraphs had been hand-written with a black pen in a crooked, somewhat juvenile scrawl. Bruce squinted, scanning the brief message.

_"Hey there cupcake_

_Just wanted to let you know I think of you CONSTANTLY_

_still remember the last night we spent together in the back of your car_

_so kind of you to DROP me off honey dew_

_Thought you might be interested to know that I SAW you on the tube last night_

_almost didnt recognize you until I noticed your dark dark hair_

_its so cute that you get all DRESSED UP and cake on that makeup whenever we have a date_

_but even without any of it Id know that beautiful face ANYwhere_

_You know I usually send GREETING CARDS instead of letters but I left them all with you_

_Would you come for a visit and give them back to me dollface? There are some I was planning to send out_

_And come as you are, no dressing up_

_kisses and a squeeze_

_Mr. J"_

Bruce's heart sank into his stomach like a rock being thrown into the sea, any appetite he'd developed for the wonderful smelling concoction Alfred was preparing quickly dissipating.

_"Dressed up... greeting cards... dark, dark hair..." _

_The Joker. _

Bruce could practically hear him speaking the words aloud, so characteristic of his patterns of speech was this letter in every way.

How had he found out? He was in the loony bin, for goodness' sakes! Bruce hadn't noticed anyone spying on him, and he never let down his guard for a second! He'd even made sure to check out that crowd of reporters who'd attended his press conference last week for the youth center that he was planning to build in the Narrows...

"Oh, fuck."

That was it. They'd televised it. It had been his most recent appearance on the news in at least a year. And, of course, the mentally deranged clown who was locked up in an insane asylum had just happened to catch the broadcast.

Why hadn't he realized that the Joker was intelligent enough to put two and two together after he'd seen so much of his face in that hospital garb? He had still been mostly covered up, but he'd shown that bastard all he needed to know. His stomach churned as he recalled the way the Joker had practically scalded his face with those wild eyes of his, now knowing that he'd been filing his visible features away in his mind to use as a basis for future comparison. Joker never rested, he never stopped!

Bruce jumped up from his seat and began to pace the room, practically panting with anxiety. The Joker knew who Batman was. He had the ultimate black-mailing card... what if he'd already told the cops? They might come breaking down his door at any minute!

_Stop._

Bruce forced himself to inhale a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. He began to think logically: the Joker held nothing but disdain for persons of authority (the feeling was mutual, he knew), and likely wouldn't involve them in any plot he had for him. He had also told Batman that he didn't want him dead, and he'd believed him. The lunatic had at least two chances to kill him and he hadn't done it, after he'd so thoughtlessly murdered countless others. "You complete me," he'd said to him. He wanted Batman to exist, he needed him to. In that case, he wouldn't dare put Bruce Wayne in danger.

He decided he would visit the Joker at Arkham, if for no other reason than to find out what he wanted from him, as well as to assure himself of the clown's silence in regard to his dual identities. Whether he'd go as Batman or Bruce Wayne, he'd have to consider, as neither would be able to get to the famed criminal easily.

For now, he would just have to relax and act as though everything was fine, for Alfred's sake. There was no sense in worrying the old man over this nonsense. More so, he didn't even want to say aloud that a freak like the Joker had discovered his big secret.

Bruce picked up the envelope again and frowned, re-reading the name of the addressee.

""Mr. U. Ermine"... Mister, you are mine." Bruce rolled his eyes.

_Very funny, Joker, very funny. He wasn't kidding when he said his jokes were bad._

_-- -- -- -- --_


	9. Entrance

Chapter Nine

Entrance

_Bruce. Bruce Wayne. Broo-sss Wayn-ah. Yech. What a terrible name._

It had all been pure _gold_, really. If he had known how sorry dear, old Jeff would have felt for him while he was coming off of those blasted tranquilizers, he'd have thrown a hysterical fit on _purpose_! Even despite the gut-wrenchingly terrifying sensations of powerlessness, numbness of his extremities and incoherent thought that he'd experienced in the interim before returning to normal. Not that he'd actually been afraid.

_No. Never._

Yes, Jeff had been so kind as to offer him hot soup and tea (not a normal staple of his diet here in the asylum) while he sat despondent in his cell, answering the orderly's concerned queries with helplessly blank stares. It was when he'd at last regained control over his senses that he had recalled exactly what had started this whole episode: Bruce Wayne. Batman. They were one! He'd had another brief chuckle just thinking about it. This most privileged information was his, to do with what he would, and he planned to milk it for all it was worth. Oh, and it was worth quite a bit to Bats.

_Too perfect._

During lunchtime one day, he'd fixed wide, plaintive eyes upon Jeff and had asked him--his first spoken words since he'd been subdued two days prior--for a pen and paper. At first, of course, Jeff had been quite reticent to appease him, as these things were not allowed to be bestowed upon mentally disturbed serial killers. Without missing a beat, Joker had calmly told him that he merely wanted to jot down his thoughts, said that writing was his way of sorting out what had happened to him when he'd experienced that "sudden outburst". Poor, old Jeff was such a sap; he'd agreed to the request.

However, it had been a bit more difficult to get someone to put the letter in an envelope and send it off to his warped version of Mr. Wayne's address on his behalf. But, fortunately for him, Jeff was out sick for several days the following week, and one of the boys who walked the Joker to and from the showers was proven to be (as evidenced by offhand remarks and vague personal references directed to the other orderlies) naive and greedy. Joker had made it a point to make amiable conversation with the skeptical youth for several days before he trusted him enough to agree to a brief word with him in his cell without the others in direct earshot. Joker had then promised the kid ten grand if he'd find out Wayne's address, put it on an envelope addressed to another name the Joker would provide, and send it along with his message from Arkham's mailroom on his behalf ("it'll be a really funny joke, that's all"). After this was done, the young orderly was to quit his job at the asylum and skip town. Joker had hidden the aforementioned money in a paper shopping bag, which he'd buried under a crooked, plastic children's slide in some desolate, seldom-used park in the Narrows. The kid had managed to find it and happily did as the Joker had bade him, asking no questions after he'd been told the words 'ten thousand dollars'.

So what if the Joker no longer had any personal savings for when he got out? He hated money anyway; possessing it only made him distracted and anxious whenever he thought about it. And besides, this was for a very good cause.

Again, Joker was not one for the pettiness of revenge, but he would happily indulge in a little good, old-fashioned blackmail with his favorite playmate. At the very least, it would keep his endlessly agitated mind busy for some time. He had to admit that the darker part of him wanted Bats to feel as helpless as he had under the other man's "care". In truth, he wanted to see the Bat--_Bruce, e-heh, I'll have to get used to that--_at his mercy, dangling like a desperate puppet from strings that were attached to his own fingers. He breathed in deeply, imagining he was sucking in all of the palpably human emotions that the stern vigilante was not supposed to have.

_This is going to be so, very, gooood._

_-- -- -- -- --_

"Well, Master Wayne..." Alfred was saying after he'd finished reading the Joker's note. The butler was holding it gingerly between two fingers, his expression dubious. Bruce had called for the older man shortly after opening the missive, insisting he look it over and give him his opinion on what he should do next. "He's... more organized than I had previously thought, isn't he? Clever."

Bruce only scoffed in reply, rising from the sofa to pace the room, his limbs tight with tension. "What should I _do _about him, Alfred? I can't just pop into Arkham as I am and demand that they let me speak to him."

"Of course not, sir. Although..." Alfred pursed his lips in thought, his eyes squinting upwards. "Although, you are known for doing what you will, when you will. As Bruce Wayne or Batman, really. ...Perhaps you've taken a recent interest in the psychology of serial murderers, you fancy yourself an expert just from having read a couple of books on the subject. Cocky as you can be at times, sir, perhaps you'd like to take a crack at the lunatic yourself. Perhaps you want a personal, private interview with him, and you're willing to pay to get it."

"Hmm." Bruce stopped pacing, considering the old man's suggestion. He supposed that his careless and daring reputation as the infamous billionaire, Bruce Wayne--not to mention donating a hefty sum to the facility--would go far in gaining him entrance into Arkham. Farther than Batman would get at this point in time. He nodded, favoring Alfred with a small smile.

"Not bad, Al, not bad. Only, would you make the call for me? Wouldn't seem right for me to do it myself, cocky fellow that I am." Bruce winked at Alfred, handing him his cell phone. "Offer them... fifteen-hundred, for starters."

"Very well, sir," the butler replied, sighing in a playful attempt at indignation. "I do hope you find a way to bring in some kind of weapon. I'd hate for an idea of mine to bring harm to you in any way. You do that well enough on your own."

But Bruce was out of earshot and on his way down the hall to the computer room. He had some research on the clinical study of the criminal mind to get started on.

-- -- -- -- --

It was a brilliantly sunny and crisp autumn day, the kind Bruce tended to prefer, as he made his way to Arkham Asylum in his "subtle" cream-colored Rolls Royce. The gravel covering the long driveway to the front of the hospital crunched beneath the car's tires and a light breeze was blowing the colorful foliage about outside. Bruce didn't have the radio on as he normally did; he was nervous and intently focused on the task at hand. He had an important part to play today, and the dark shades and navy Armani suit he wore were as much of a costume to him as the Bat suit was.

He thought back to the research he had done in the week before securing this interview; he'd learned that those prone to extreme violence up to and including murder were largely thought by the professional community to be products of a combination of an abusive homelife and faulty genetics. Some opinions leaned more towards one than the other, but in the cases Bruce had skimmed, the two seemed to go hand in hand. If he were forced to endure the presence of faculty, at least he'd have a basis for plausible conversation with the Joker. He couldn't help but to shudder at the thought of playing at dissecting a man he loathed to the core, a man whose very eyes would be ridiculing him in front of Arkham's staff. He sincerely hoped his money would keep them out of the room.

As Bruce pulled up to the building, a middle-aged man with a neatly clipped moustache in a mid-quality three-piece suit stood patiently before the entrace. He was flanked by another man and a woman, both formally dressed and wearing white lab coats. Bruce maneuvered the Rolls into a spot that was clearly marked as being reserved for Arkham's physicians, knowing the obnoxious move would add to the haughty demeanor he had constructed in order to fool these people into thinking he was a spoiled playboy who merely wanted to play doctor for a day. Bruce took a deep breath and exited the car, grinning up at his audience, all swagger and self-assurance. He was fully in character now, his worries concealed even from himself.

"Good morning, gentleman and lady," he addressed the three, eyes lingering momentarily on the blushing female doctor before focusing on the man in the suit, who had reached out to shake his hand. "Are you my guide?"

"No." The older man, obviously insulted, emitted a forced laugh and shook his head. "No, Mr. Wayne, I am Dr. Steven Caldwell, chief psychoanalyst at Arkham Asylum. This is Dr. Trevor Glennon, head of the psychiatry ward."

"Hello, Mr. Wayne, pleasure to meet you." Glennon's words were clipped but his tone was light, his small blue eyes bright behind smart, square-rimmed spectacles. Bruce said nothing, but inclined his head briefly in greeting.

"And this is Dr. Jean Fable." Caldwell indicated the small, red-haired and freckled woman to his left. "Our most promising young psychologist. She's brought some revolutionary, new methods to us from Yale, and I feel our patients will benefit greatly from her knowledge."

"Impressive." Bruce smiled down at the Doctor, whose face how matched her hair, and gently took her hand in his to shake it. She smiled bashfully up at Bruce, but said nothing. "But, uh, why are you all here to meet me? I wanted a private interview with the Joker."

"I remember, Mr. Wayne," Caldwell began. "However, I am not sure that you're... exactly prepared to be in the same room alone with this caliber of criminal. We're all familiar with the Joker's case, and if you should run into any, er, problems, we're each well equipped to assist you. He's a highly dangerous and unpredictable man--"

"I know that. I watch the news," Bruce interrupted, his voice both bored and impatient. "And I'm more than prepared for him. I've done quite a bit of research, you know."

Caldwell stifled a scoff and forced a smile. "But of course, Mr. Wayne. I just thought that it might be... helpful, for you to have us present during the interview. More importantly, there are legalities to consider, not only on your behalf, but on ours. If anything were to happen to either of you, well..."

Bruce drew back his closed lips in a mirthless smile and removed his shades, placing them in his right breast pocket. He reached into his jacket and drew his checkbook from an inner compartment. "I'm sure you're all too busy to be following me around all day. Perhaps an orderly can show me to his room and keep watch, if it'll make you feel better, and you can all get back to what I'm sure you'd rather be doing. I just want to get inside his head a little; I'm not terribly interested in trying to fix him."

Dr. Caldwell looked pensive, his lips twitching as he glanced from Bruce's checkbook to his eyes and back again. Glennon stared down at his own feet, his body perfectly still, while Fable fidgeted with her hands and hair alongside him. Bruce tilted his head, grinning again.

"Does anyone have a pen?"

All three of them immediately searched their pockets.

-- --

A beer-bellied-but-buff orderly who had served in the Gulf War before being discharged (the books said "honorably", but his current occupation stated otherwise) had introduced himself to Bruce only as "Sydney", and was now leading him to the room in which he would meet with the Joker. Bruce's heart pounded with anxiety and anger; the former because he was not sure what the Joker planned to do with his newfound information, and the latter because the clown had found it out in the first place and was now taunting him with it.

At least money still talked, and there would be no others to witness the dastard's mockery. Speaking of which...

"Ah, Syd," Bruce started, causing the large man ahead of him to stop walking and face him with a humorless expression. "Can I call you Syd?"

"No."

"Right." Bruce grinned and cleared his throat. "Syd, I had my heart set on talking with the Joker alone. You know, sort of a tete-a-tete?"

Sydney furrowed his brows, glaring down at Bruce. He was about to tell the smart-alecky businessman, or whoever he was, just where he could go with his pretentious French nonsense, but the crisp cash now being shuffled in the other's hands kept his mouth shut. Bruce counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, folded them in half and offered them to Syd as though they were merely a ten dollar tip being handed to a hotel doorman.

"Maybe come back in an hour or so; I won't take too long," Bruce said. "And I'll come out and get you if he... starts up."

Sydney stared hard at the money for a moment. He was not a rich man, by any means, and he had a daughter he was trying to get into a decent college. A thousand dollars would be a great help to him right now. He looked Bruce in the eye, his own face bereft of expression as he quickly took the money from his hand.

"The room's a few doors down on the right, number 205. I'll be close by." He handed Bruce a key card to enter the room and a small radio. "Swipe the card in the slot next to the door and pocket it before he sees you with it. Pass code's 1503. If you need help, call for me on the radio and I'll be right there. You get an hour alone with him, and that's it, so don't be askin' me for any more when I come back."

Bruce nodded, smug smile still on his lips. He watched Sydney walk down the hall until he turned the corner, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. He stared at the heavy wooden door that hid the Joker from his sight. It looked so ordinary, so commonplace, but the thing locked behind it was anything but.

He slid the card down the slot beside the door and punched in the correct code to undo the electrified lock. He heard a minute click and the small red light above the lock turned green. Bruce stood up straight and smoothed his hair back, reminding himself of his own strength and power before he pulled the door open and entered the room.

-- -- -- -- --


	10. Unmasked

Chapter Ten

Unmasked

The Bruce Wayne he had seen on television from time to time had always been impeccably dressed and without a single hair out of place, but the real thing, now standing awkwardly in the doorway, was almost unnaturally attractive. He was tall (looked to be at least 6'1"), with smooth, lightly tanned skin and shiny, slicked back brunette hair. His two-piece, navy blue suit fit his strong-looking, well-built figure as if it were made only for him, which it likely had been. The billionaire was so handsome, it was almost intimidating. No, not just handsome, but _movie star_ handsome. Although, his eyes... those dark, angry eyes belonged to the Bat, and none other. The Joker's fingers clenched and unclenced, wrists shackled to the heavy metal table he was seated before by tight, leather restraints.

For several moments, the two remained still, staring each other down. Bruce's eyes were alight with anger and frustration, while Joker's twinkled with merriment and cunning. Finally, the latter spoke, his voice gently cutting into the room's silence like a butter knife slicing through soft bread.

"Well, well. Well_. Bruce Wayne. _You're even prettier than your pictures." He grinned, his yellow eyeteeth glinting. "So. How'd you get rid of the stiffs? You break your, aha, one rule, just to get me alone again?"

Bruce glared down at him, his right upper lip inadvertently twitching against his nostril. He shut the door behind him, not breaking eye contact with the Joker as he pulled out the flimsy, fold-up chair opposite the other man and sat down. The small room with its dirty, white-washed walls and fluorescent lighting (Arkham's signature decor) was chilly and had a mysteriously stale smell about it. Another small stretch of silence passed between them as Bruce suffered under the Joker's incisive stare. Taking in the other's discomfiture with obvious relish, the Joker raised his eyebrows, as if to ask Bruce what he was waiting for. For some reason he couldn't quite discern, Bruce found that motion infuriating.

"How dare you?" he asked the Joker in a wavering tone, realizing as he spoke that he was seated before the criminal as Bruce Wayne, not Batman. Even speaking to the other in his normal voice made him feel uneasy, as did his expensive clothing. He yearned to be in the bat suit, to be anywhere else with this man, so that beating him senseless would feel right. Here, as he was, the urge to destroy the Joker was anything but.

Joker chuckled mirthlessly. He leaned forward, his hands twisting in their binds. "Y'know, that, ah, phrase sounds a bit famil-i-ar. Doesn't it?" His eyes bored into Bruce's, insinuating the memory of him shouting the three words into the other's brain. "Doesn't feel too, eheh, _hot,_ to be the one saying that, does it?"

"Oh, please." Bruce finally looked down, away from the Joker, running his hands up his face and back into his hair. "You're telling me that you did whatever dirty work I know you had to have done to find out who I am and to send me that--that--that obnoxious letter, just because you're mad that I brought you back here? You're absolutely insane! This is just where you belong! What did you think I was gonna do, keep you around for a while just to let you go free when I got bored?"

The Joker did not reply, only continued to watch Bruce with an amused smile plastered onto his face. It made Bruce want to throttle him, but all he could do was clench his fingers tightly into his palms and gnaw on his lower lip. Joker's eyes fixated on his mouth for a long moment until Bruce realized he was watching him and stilled his teeth, sneering at the grinning clown. Joker giggled, the high-pitched sound piercing the room's stillness.

"I know it doesn't seem like it, but it's just as difficult for me to see you like... _this, _as it seems to be for you to be out of your suit. On the one hand," Joker began, leaning back in the seat his legs were strapped into, "I'm a bit disappointed. Under all the black armor and the cape and the, the, the _bat ears_, you're just another _guy. _It's almost as if you were..." Joker paused, deliberately looking him up and down. "Completely naked. That is to say, you're _human._ Just like anybody else. Well, haha. Not just _anybody._ You're Bruce Wayne! And _that's_ the amusing part. I gotta hand it to you," Joker laughed, smacking his lips. "If I didn't look closely, I'd never have figured it out."

"And just how _did _you figure it out?" Bruce asked, taking the opening and running with it. He leaned forward in his seat, intensely studying the other's face. Joker mimicked his movements and darted his eyes back and forth, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

"Well, that's..." His tongue swiped across his dry lips. "For me to know, and you... to guess."

"...What?"

"Guess! Come on. I'm alone here most of the time, I have no one to play with anymore."

"You think this is a _game_?!" Bruce ground out, his voice merging with the Batman's on the last word. "This is my _private life _you're messing around with!"

He had risen abruptly from his chair, which clattered to the floor in his wake. The startling sound was sobering enough to stop him from reaching across the table and wrapping his trembling hands around the Joker's neck.

"You really are him..." Joker said softly, more to himself than to Bruce, heart pounding with excitement as the realization sunk in. He shook his head, faded green hair falling around his bare face.

Bruce's cheeks went slightly red with embarrassment. Without a word, he righted the chair he'd knocked over and sat back down on it, straightening his suit jacket as he did so. The Joker was never going to speak to him truthfully if he allowed him to get under his skin this way. He would simply have to force himself to remain calm at all times, and not give the madman any anger to feed off of if he could help it. He sighed, noticeably relaxing his posture. He had to stop himself from grinning with triumph at the confused look the Joker was favoring him with. Perhaps he would be able to surprise some information out of the quixotic clown.

"Joker," he began, his voice low. "I want to thank you for keeping quiet about my identity."

Predictably, the still smiling man offered no response save for a stuttered giggle, his dark blond eyebrows furrowed. Bruce could tell that the Joker was suspicious of his sudden change of mood, which also served to keep the criminal's guard down just slightly. He cleared his throat and continued.

"But now that you know who I am... well, it makes me feel vulnerable. You know? You have something on me that puts the cards in your favor. Our playing field is no longer level. Don't you think it's only fair that you at least tell me your first name?"

The Joker's uncertain grin immediately and minutely morphed into a smug smirk. _Nice try, B-roose._

"'The'."

"What?"

"My first name, is "The"."

Bruce closed his eyes, willing himself to keep his composure. The lunatic never truly let his guard down at all, and it was positively maddening. He forced himself to smile back at the other.

"That's very funny," he said dryly, refusing to give up. "You used to be a comedian?"

"No, not professionally. Always made my friends laugh, though."

"You had _friends_?" Bruce couldn't stop himself from asking, making the Joker chuckle.

"Why, sure, Ba--Brucie. Used to be a real popular fella, y'know."

Bruce grimaced at the nickname, but ignored it. "You don't say."

"Oh, but I _do_." Joker relaxed a bit in his stifling seat, taking comfort in spinning his tales. "Why, back when I was in high school, I had it all. Good grades, captain of the football team--no, really!--dated the prettiest girl in school. Myra Rae Finkle, her name was."

"Really?" Bruce asked sardonically, raising his eyebrows at the felon. This was far-fetched, even for him.

"Really. Oh, those were the _days_, Brucie. We'd take my Cadillac to the soda shop every Friday, Myra and I'd share a malted, we'd all take turns picking songs on the jukebox and dance, and laugh. Those were good times."

"I see. So, you were born in, what, 1935?"

Joker, who had been completely engrossed in his story, turned back to Bruce with an almost sheepish expression.

"But don't I look _good_ for my age?"

"I don't know. How old are you?"

"How old are _you_?"

Bruce smiled again, deciding it wouldn't do him any more harm to tell the man his age. It was a matter of public record, anyway. "I'm 28. You look about my age, you know, without all of that stuff on your face."

Being reminded of his naked face caused the Joker to squirm a little in his seat. He twitched his head to one side, allowing more hair to fall over his features. Bats sure was sneaky as Bruce Wayne. He'd have to be careful around him. _Bruce Wayne..._

"So, just how much dough _do _you have, Brucie?" Joker asked, abruptly changing the subject away from himself. "I hear you're loaded. About how much did it cost you to buy your way in here to see me today?"

"That's none of your business, nor is it your concern, Joker," Bruce replied easily. The Joker mouthed the word "oh" at him, playfully. "Why is it that you don't want to share anything personal about yourself with me?"

"Oh, it isn't just _you, _Brucie. No one..." Joker stopped himself, as though he were considering his words before uttering them. "You already know everything there is to know about me. I am only what you see before you, nothing more, nothing less."

"How... philosophical," Bruce said in a weary tone, making it clear he wasn't buying what the Joker was selling. He knew there was a man hidden somewhere behind the brambles and thorns of that twisted mind, with a history and a past. He was not yet aware that he had abandoned his true purpose in coming here--which had been solely to make sure the criminal did not out him to the authorities--in order to pry into the other's seemingly impenetrable psyche. The Joker was an enigma. He was addictive, mysterious and fascinating. Bruce was all caught up in him without even realizing it.

"Do you think so?" the clown was asking him coyly, one eyebrow slightly risen.

"Mmm," Bruce answered absently. He was studying the Joker as one would a complicated jigsaw puzzle, planning his next move.

Unbeknownst to Bruce, his scrutiny was making Joker just the slightest bit nervous. _Agitated. _Largely immobilized and held in place by the chair and shackles, he felt like a piece of meat in a butcher shop, and the man before him was instead a little old woman who was taking her time deciding just which slice she wanted to take home with her. The Joker began to drum his fingers against the cold table top and to tap his slippered feet. His dark green eyes flitted here and there, attempting to land anywhere but on Bruce, but nothing else in the room proved to be half as interesting.

"Uh, Bruce?" Joker asked, his voice suddenly high and stringy. It made Bruce's dark eyes shoot up to meet his immediately, which, in turn, increased the Joker's nerves. He tittered faintly, as if on accident. "Why are you really here? I mean, e-heh, you know I'm not going to tell anyone about you. Hah, I wouldn't. Wouldn't be any fun at all, that."

Bruce blinked hard, as baffled by the question as he was by the man's sudden and unexplained reticent demeanor. "Joker, you practically threatened me with that ridiculous letter of yours."

"Oh, that? Ha! I was just having fun with you, is all. Wanted to let you know I knew in the funniest way possible. I thought maybe we could be pen pals." Joker chuckled, but he was practically sweating with what he called agitation. Something about Bruce Wayne, with his handsome face, intelligent eyes and tailored suit unnerved him greatly. He was not prepared for this, nor did he expect to experience such an alien feeling of mental discomfort around the man he knew as Batman. He wanted to tell him everything and he also wanted him to get out of this room immediately and leave him alone.

"You're telling me that you didn't want me to come here," Bruce was saying, now thoroughly confused. He opened his mouth to go on, but a sharp rap against the outside of the door interrupted him. It must be his new buddy Sydney, signaling that it was time for him to go.

Bruce rose from his seat and sighed, disturbed to realize that he was reluctant to leave. He had felt that he'd stumbled into the process of chipping away at the Joker's well-constructed armor, and now he wasn't able to finish. It was decidedly unfortunate that the clown apparently had no desire to see him again (and after all of that, "you complete me" prattle of his), but despite his intense interest in unraveling the other's warped psyche, Bruce would not force his presence upon him. Aside from being short on time to spend with the recalcitrant inmate, he had his pride.

Not knowing what to say in parting, Bruce searched the Joker's downcast eyes for a moment before he turned to leave him, goaded on by another loud bang at the door.

_He's not coming back. Nope, gone with the wind, that one. Agh, it gets so goddamned boring around here... now I've got him thinking I don't wanna see him. Can't just sever the tie, who knows how long it'll be before I find another way outta here... gotta give him something to go on and then come back, gotta make an offering, let him know I..._

"Hey, Bats." Joker spoke clearly without a trace of anxiety in his tone. Bruce spun around, hand on the knob and brows raised in surprise.

"You were right. I'm 27." The Joker chortled mischievously. "I think."

Bruce was about to respond when the door opened, seemingly of its own accord, to reveal Sydney, the orderly's frowning face.

"Get a move on, Wayne, I ain't got all day," the man groused. Bruce only nodded, following him out of the room as if in shock.

"Don't be a stranger now, Brucie!" The Joker called after him, his words punctuated with gleeful cackles. "Oh! And bring me my cards next time, you forgetful cad!"

-- -- -- -- --


	11. Seeing is Believing

Chapter Eleven

Seeing is Believing

_Impossible, impossible, no, no, no. That preppy, plastic person was not my Bats, couldn't be. Didn't look a thing like him but for the small square of face. Hold still, wouldja?! Ain't no piano on this table, stop drumming._

_I can't swallow right, it's hot in here, I wanna lay down..._

_I say when we're tired! ...Yeah, I was saying, ain't no way that mannequin could evolve into Batman just by putting on some big, black suit, not in a million years. Not in a day, not in a second, not ever. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle, not a mark. Ha... gotta be at least one scar from me under that day suit, at least one, haha... _

_You'll know when you see it. Don't trust anything you can't see, other senses be damned._

_I know _now_. It's him. __It's_ him_. He was here, naked, might as well be. Now we're really getting to know each other. This is too interesting to just leave it at that, too many possibilities, too much fun. We're just starting, not the end at all, the unmasking hasn't even yet begun. He'll hate you even more than he thinks he does now. I know he doesn't, not yet..._

_Hah... I won't be bored for a long time, now. Looks like the next move's on me. Hook, here comes the line..._

-- -- -- -- --

After his meeting with the Joker, Bruce Wayne hurried to leave the hospital. A bit dazed, he did not think to check in with the doctors who'd greeted him upon his arrival an hour and a half before. He got into his car and began to drive home quickly, his movements mechanical as thoughts raced behind his deadened eyes. Recalling how the Joker had effortlessly been able to enthrall him, like a fly in a spider's web, Bruce clenched his teeth in anger.

There was little that unnerved Bruce more than either loss of control or being manipulated, and the Joker had managed to completely command his attention, to fascinate and nearly enthrall him, against his own will. He felt used, stupid and a bit humiliated.

He parked the Rolls Royce in his immense garage, between the vintage Ferrari and the brand new Porsche, and marched into the house, making his way towards the small, rather plain kitchen (as opposed to the fully stocked, much larger one a floor below it) where Alfred would inevitably have a cup of tea ready for him. He was almost correct in that assumption, as the butler had just put the kettle on when he'd heard him coming. Bruce nodded at the older man in greeting and sat down at the table.

"Tea will be ready momentarily, sir," Alfred said to Bruce, frowning at the other's expressionless visage. It was a look which always signified that something had deeply disturbed his young master, but he had not quite yet processed it himself. He had expected Bruce to immediately inform him about everything that went on during his meeting with the Joker once he'd returned home; after all, he'd been so excited about it just a couple of hours ago, and he'd long had a habit of running all of his impressions and theories by Alfred as soon as he was able to. The criminal must have said or done something positively dreadful to Bruce for him to just sit there, sulking. Alfred swallowed down his nerves, knowing that Bruce would not be forthcoming if pressed. He knew from experience that an unobtrusive line of questioning worked best with the other man.

"How did the visit go?"

Bruce sighed in response, shaking his head minutely. "Very strangely," was all he offered, his voice low. Alfred forced out a lighthearted chuckle.

"Well, I didn't expect the two of you to bond over baseball cards." The butler allowed several moments to pass, hoping that Bruce would volunteer some more information, but the man remained sullen. Though he knew better than to ask, Alfred couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Did he, ah, say something upsetting?"

"He's the Joker, Alfred. He _is _upsetting." Rolling his eyes, Bruce rose abruptly, throwing his tie over his shoulder. "I'm going to lay down in my room for a while. I'll take my tea later on this evening."

"Very good, sir." Alfred smiled to himself as the younger man lumbered out of the room. If Bruce's tone of voice had been just a touch higher, he would've sworn he'd sounded just like the petulant teenaged boy he used to be. Whatever had happened between the Joker and Bruce couldn't be all that bad, he decided, relieved.

-- -- -- -- --

"Time to get up, Mr. J. It's dinner time."

The Joker scrubbed at his eyes with balled fists, smiling as the sturdy form of Jeff, the orderly, swam into focus.

"I thought I recognized your sweet voice," he drawled. "I'll bet you missed me terribly while you were away. What happened, you come down with malaria or something? Wouldn't be surprised, if you eat the same tripe they're feeding me around here..."

"Just a bad case of the flu, Mr. J. Now, get your ass out of bed before the tripe gets cold," Jeff grumbled, but the touch of red warming his cheeks did not go unnoticed by his grinning charge. Joker happily went through the motions of holding out his hands and feet for the cuffing procedure. During meal times, his feet were always affixed very closely to the bed frame, but the two-foot long chain attached to the cuffs around his wrists allowed him enough movement to feed himself. He was pleased that Jeff was overseeing his dinner this evening. He usually had to eat with Sydney watching over him, but the strong, silent brute must've gotten so sick of his endless chatter over the past few days (the combination of Jeff's absence and Bruce's visit had thrown him into an anxiously loquacious mood) that he'd asked Jeff to fill in for him.

"It's oh, too bad you weren't here yesterday. You missed the visit from my, ah, famous friend."

Jeff looked at the Joker quizzically, worrying that the man had suffered another psychological setback and was now imagining things. "J, you ain't had a visitor since you been here."

"Uh-huh," the clown replied, purposely ignoring the doubt in the other's eyes. He turned to face another, much younger orderly standing at the door. "Mike, maybe you should tell him. He'd believe _you._"

"It was Bruce Wayne, Jeff!" the youth blurted. "I wasn't there either, but I heard Syd talking about it. His signature was on the sign-in sheet, I made a copy of it."

"Mm-hmm. And he's coming back, too," Joker assured Mike with an excited gleam in his eye.

"You don't say." Jeff fixed his smug patient with a perplexed look. "Why in the world would he come to visit you?"

With a quick swipe of his tongue across his lower lip, Joker leaned closer to the man, an air of conspiracy permeating his posture. "Don't tell anyone," he whispered. "But he owes me a deck of cards."

"What are you talking--"

"Shush, shh!"

"Sorry." Jeff rolled his eyes, lowering his voice. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I said, silly," Joker said with a sly wink. Then he rose, brows furrowed as if considering something. "Jeff, d'ya think he'll forget to bring them next time, too?"

"I really couldn't tell you, Mr. J." Still feeling under the weather from his flu and more than a bit tired, Jeff decided to just let it go.

He and Mike went about silently setting up the Joker's canvas-covered tray with the reedy, wooden legs, paper napkin and styrofoam silverware (Joker had been particularly displeased when he'd first seen it; now, plastic, he could work with, but styrofoam?). Apparently, a soupy, brownish mess that was supposed to be accepted as a chicken and mushroom dish was on the menu for this evening, along with a side of over-cooked canned peas, another side of tasteless mashed potatoes, and the Joker's favorite beverage of water (in a styrofoam cup, of course). The criminal's nostrils twitched in disgust as the scent of the meal infiltrated them, and he glanced up at Jeff and Mike dubiously. They had no excuse for the food, and merely averted their eyes, almost apologetically.

"Uh-_huh_. Well, gentlemen, here we go." The Joker closed his eyes, opened his mouth and forced in a small bite of the main course. After about five seconds of mulling it over, his eyelids flew open and he spit the meat out into the paper napkin. "Ugh! Can't do it."

"Ah, J, it can't be all that bad," Jeff insisted uncertainly.

"You want to try it?"

"...No. Eat your peas."

The Joker snarled at Jeff, almost in jest, and did as he was told. The side dishes, while not palatable, were at least edible. The two orderlies watched their charge as he slowly worked on them, his brows furrowed and his eyes glaring straight ahead, seeing nothing. He appeared to be thinking something over, now that the process of eating prevented him from speaking. Jeff and Mike exchanged sidelong glances when the clown began to hum under his breath, as though he were responding to questions or statements. He systematically dispatched the last of the vegetables and drank down all of the water in one, large gulp, finishing with a loud "ahhhh". He nodded once and then his eyes focused sharply on the two men, as if they had been included in his unspoken conversation.

"So," The Joker started, then burped loudly, pushing the tray away from him as far as his cuffs would allow. "So, how does a guy go about making a phone call around here?"

-- -- -- -- --


	12. Sinker

Chapter Twelve

Sinker

It was six-fifty-four on a Saturday morning when Bruce was rudely awakened by the cellphone on his nightstand. The small, simple device (Batman had plenty of other complicated, high-tech gadgets to play with) was trilling a gratingly loud default ringtone. There were a fair few that knew this number, but none who would dare to call him at this time of day on a weekend unless it was an emergency. Bruce's heart skipped a beat as he grabbed the phone (briefly noting that he did not recognize the number that came up on the caller i.d.) and answered it.

"Yes, hello?" His voice was urgent but slightly slurred, as he was only a bit more than half awake. A long pause ensued, which allowed him to become more alert. He knew someone was on the other end, he could hear their shallow breathing and a strange, wet, clicking sound that was somehow familiar to him. There was a sharp intake of breath, and a male voice finally answered him.

"Hi, Bruce. Did I wake you? So sorry."

The voice was confident and even with a nasally pitch. It was inimitable and unmistakable. _How the hell did he get this number?_

"...Didja go back to sleep, Brucie?"

"How the hell did you get this number?"

An amused chuckle. Bruce rolled his eyes and glanced at the digital clock on the night table. This was supposed to be the first morning he was able to sleep through in a very long time. Why did the Joker have to pick today at seven a.m. to start the next phase of his twisted game?

"Now, that's not important and you know it. I don't think you even care, really." The clown cleared his throat and smacked his lips (which Bruce just realized was what created that oddly familiar clicking sound). "No, I just called to, uh, chat. That's all."

""That's all"?" Bruce asked incredulously. The horrifying thought crossed his mind that perhaps the Joker had escaped from Arkham, and had called to taunt him. "Joker, where are you calling from?"

"From the fancy schmancy spa you sent me to, silly," he replied playfully, and waited a moment for Bats to laugh. Of course, he didn't. Joker heaved an exaggerated sigh. "All right, you drone, from a filthy pay phone down the hall from the cafeterias. Honestly, no sense of humor!"

"It's too early to laugh." Bruce decided he may as well be receptive; perhaps Joker, confident in the knowledge of Bruce's deepest secret, was feeling comfortable enough to share one or more of his own. He likely knew that all he had to do was threaten to out Bruce as Batman and he'd have his sworn silence forever. However, in Bruce's experience, the Joker always had an ulterior motive. He'd just have to be patient, play along and wait to find out what it was. He couldn't afford to assume anything with a man whose unpredictability was the only predictable thing about him.

"Never too early or too late for a good laugh, Bats. Thought you'd have figured that out by now," Joker said conversationally. "Anyway, if I _had_ escaped--yes, you are _that_ obvious--I wouldn't bother with a phone call. I know where you live, I'd just stop by. Like good friends do."

A chill went up Bruce's spine. This man was truly a delusional psychopath. He couldn't let himself forget it.

"You there?" Joker's voice sounded almost anxious. More, slightly faster clicking sounds.

"Yeah, I'm here," Bruce muttered. This experience was so surreal, he wondered if (or rather, wished) he were dreaming. "So, what do you want to "chat" about, Joker? If you're going to wake me up so damned early, you'd better have a good reason for it."

"Do friends need a good reason to phone each other? Ah--hold on, I gotta feed this thing more money."

Bruce listened as the Joker rustled around his pockets for change, dropped the coins on the floor, picked them up and shoved them noisily into the machine.

"Take it, you capitalistic beast," he mumbled before reaffixing the phone to his ear. "You there?"

"I'm here," Bruce said again, frowning at the Joker's unnecessarily loud question. He allowed himself a smirk at the eccentric criminal. He almost wished he'd met him under different circumstances.

But how dare he think such a thing? This was the man who'd murdered his best friend, not to mention countless others in Gotham and probably elsewhere in the country. The Joker possessed a kind of eccentric charisma and, despite his madness, a thorough understanding of the darkness of human nature. He knew how to manipulate people, to twist his enemies into unwitting accomplices. If he had chosen to use his innate intelligence and natural appeal for good, the clown could have become a great leader. Instead, he'd decided to dedicate his life to death itself, flaunting his superior skills as he did that ridiculous purple suit.

"Uh-huh. Ah, what were we talking about?"

"We weren't. You were going to tell me what was on your mind." Bruce was attempting to steer the conversation to a meaningful point, and completely away from himself. He was not interested in giving the Joker any more personal information to use.

"Right." A heavy sigh. "Well, I dunno. To tell the truth, this joke is starting to wear off, hah. I want my clothes, I want my face, and I need some space." He sighed heavily again, but this time it sounded genuinely weary and thoughtful. "I just needed to talk to you."

"What?" Bruce had heard him, but he didn't know what else to say. To his chagrin, his face flushed. Joker's wheedling tone put him in mind of a fawning, adolescent girl. He hadn't truly expected the other man to be honest with him; he to be very careful not to get sucked into this possible fallacy.

"I said, I just wanted to talk. It gets so _dreadfully dull _around here, you know." His voice had regained it's playfully sardonic cadence. "Not very funny at all."

"You don't say," Bruce replied tautly. He was not in the mood for the Joker's casual nonsense. "Joker, if you don't get to the point, I'm going to hang up."

"What are you wearing?"

"...What?"

"Haha, I'm just curious as to what the infamous Batman wears to bed." Joker's tone was coy, speculative. "Now, Bruce Wayne probably wears silk pajamas, but Batman, I'll bet he sleeps au natural."

Bruce's heart raced, his thought process had fizzled and frozen up after he'd questioned whether the Joker was behaving this way to exasperate him or to put him off guard. In either case, he was entirely unprepared for this, and now Joker knew it, which gave him the upper hand.

"Bat got your tongue, Brucie?" Joker asked, then chuckled. "So, which is it? Silk or skin?"

"Knock it off, Joker," he growled.

"Ooh, I see Bats has entered the conversation. I was hoping for this."

"Don't play games with me, clown, or I'll come over there and--"

"Oh, I just love it when you threaten me, Batman!"

"What the fuck is your problem, you lunatic!"

Another long silence, this time without the interspersed breathing and clicking sounds from the Joker's end. Bruce felt inexplicably guilty, though he was well aware that he needn't be. Merely speaking to the Joker on the phone was exhausting, a demanding mental exercise in itself.

"Are you there?" he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Yeah," Joker answered in a small voice. "I'm here."

Bruce pushed himself into a straighter sitting position, ran a hand through his hair. He knew it wasn't smart to believe that the Joker was opening up to him in his bizarre way, lest it be another game. On the other hand, it was certainly possible, and he felt obligated to take advantage of the tentative situation.

"Why did you call me?" Bruce asked, keeping his voice soft and low. The Joker clicked and sighed for a moment before answering.

"Bats, I can't stand it in here. The same thing, day and night, night and day, all the time, it's driving me nuts!" He laughed loudly, without humor. "Seriously. I've been trying to ignore it, but I don't see any nice way to get outta here, and I gotta get out, so I gotta do what I gotta do, and--"

"Joker, Joker," Bruce interrupted, putting out a steadying hand as if the other man was before him in person. "You need to calm down, you're rambling. What are you thinking of doing?"

"Well, haha, if I were in my _right mind_, I'd wait for the chance to--a paperclip or something--and I could--" The connection was fading in and out, and an automated female voice began to tell the two of them that she required fifty cents in order to continue their phone call.

"Joker, are you there?" Bruce asked, fairly frantic. "Can you ask a guard for more money?"

"I don't have any more--I can't--Bruce--"

And with a series of sharp bleeps, the call was lost. Bruce sank back into his pillow, feeling defeated.

But no, he wouldn't accept that. The Joker was quite clearly considering a violent escape, so he would have to get to Arkham today and talk him out of it. He caressed his soft pillow longingly, promising it and himself that he'd schedule another day to sleep in, in the near future.

-- -- -- -- --

The Joker's scarred lips spread into a feline grin. He couldn't have asked for the call to cut off at a more perfect time. He imagined Bruce Wayne clutching an ivory phone to his ear in his red-and-gold, king-sized bed, face ashen with concern. He would be compelled to return to Arkham, whereupon Joker could resume his work on him. He'd never before desired a partner in crime, so to speak, but then, he'd never met a man who was both his equal in mental strength and yet his polar opposite in ideological makeup at the same time.

_When fire meets water, the earth itself will explode in a veritable symphony of beautiful, magical chaos..._

Yes, he'd played the Bat the way Perlman plays the violin: expertly, skillfully. The reason he was able to manipulate a man as formidable as Batman was simply because he always told the truth, and in his experience, nothing attracted the justice-obsessed vigilante more than raw honesty. After all, there was never any good reason for him to lie, and he never felt inclined to do so. He always meant what he said, perhaps not in the exact way it came across, or in the specific context he incidentally led whoever he was speaking to, to believe, but he couldn't help that.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps echoing down the hallway, culminating in Sydney coming towards him from around the corner, where he had been standing guard. The gruff orderly had not been the Joker's first choice for assistant-slash-lookout, but things just hadn't worked out with Jeff, who was adamant on upholding the ban on all voluntary outside communication that the hospital had imposed upon the serial murderer. The puppy eyes and plaintive pleading had not worked on the man this time.

"I think you've had enough time out here." Sydney grabbed the Joker's hands and pulled them behind his back, cuffing them expediently. "Keep quiet, I'll get you back to your room."

"I won't make a peep, Syd," Joker quipped, allowing the other to lead him down the hall. The corner of his mouth that was not visible to Sydney quirked tremulously in amusement; he could verily smell the corrupted orderly's itching desire to know what business he had with Gotham's infamous Bruce Wayne.

"What did you say to him?" Sydney finally asked in a low voice. Joker chuckled dryly, his intuition affirmed.

"That's not important. You just do as you're told and you'll get what's coming to you in the end."

Joker was genuinely surprised, but not upset, when Sydney whirled around and pinned him against the wall.

"Don't you talk to me like that! While we're in here, I'm your superior," he ground out, fighting to keep his temper and his voice down. Joker grinned in his face, unafraid.

"Syd, you gotta calm down," he told the other man, his tone and manner immediately consoling. "We're not in the Gulf, we're in the asylum, and we both know what we have to do to keep sane around here. Once I get outta here--and you know I will, that's what makes you smarter than the rest of these lugs--I swear to you you'll get your payment. I'm a man of my word."

Sydney rolled his neck and slowly relinquished his grip on the Joker's collar. He was still agitated, but the reminder of the money the Joker had promised was enough to mollify him. He knew the lunatic was good for it because he told him he'd already paid off Nick to mail a letter for him. Once he'd tracked the kid down and verified the Joker's claim, he was in. One hundred thousand dollars was more money than he'd ever seen in his life, and he needed it now more than he needed this dirt-paying, shit-taking job. He had always been lower-middle-class, likely always would be, and he was well accustomed to that way of life. No, if the money were for himself, he'd have turned the Joker in as soon as he'd made the offer. But it was for his daughter. She would die if she didn't get that transplant, and she was nowhere near the top of the list. He'd be lucky if he had a grand left once he found what he needed in the black market, but it would all be worth it to show her that he'd be there for her when she needed him this time.

"You'd better keep your word, Joker. You're right, I am a smart guy. Smart enough to track you down and make you pay in blood if you don't pay in cash first."

"Fear not, Sydney, fear not," Joker assured him, his wide grin unwavering. "As I promised, you'll get what's coming to you."

-- -- -- -- --


	13. The Truth in a Lie

Chapter Thirteen

The Truth in a Lie

Bruce had phoned the asylum at eight a.m. and used his flattering charm on the secretary to be patched directly through to Dr. Caldwell, Arkham's chief psychoanalyst, whom he'd met with on his first visit. The man was familiar with him, had accepted a bribe from him, and had the power to grant him reentry to the asylum. With the fairly implausible explanation that he hadn't finished interrogating the Joker the first time and wanted to continue their interview--and yes, it _had_ to be today because of his busy schedule--along with the very thinly veiled promise of more money, Caldwell grudgingly acceded to his request and asked him to please be there by ten that morning.

After showering, shaving and briefly styling his hair with an expensive molding paste, Bruce pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs and began to choose his clothing for that day. Casual attire was absolutely out of the question, and formal wear was absolutely too much. The suit he'd worn last time was a perfect combination of both, but he just couldn't wear that again. The thought that the Joker certainly wouldn't care, let alone notice what he was wearing did indeed cross his mind, but was quickly forgotten as he rummaged through his things.

"It would be easy to just do all black, but then I'd look like I was going to a funeral..." Bruce mumbled to himself, appraising a simple black jacket. "Mmm... maybe... yeah, this with the grey pants, the blue shirt and no tie. That should be good enough."

Bruce hurriedly pulled on the clothes and buzzed Alfred on the intercom.

"Good morning, Alfred."

"And to you, Master Bruce. You're up earlier than I thought you'd be today, but almost late enough for brunch to be appropriate if you'd like," the butler's voice emanated congenially from the speaker.

"Actually, something came up at the asylum with the Joker. I'd say more, but I'm late as it is. Don't worry," he added quickly, seeing Alfred's concerned expression in his mind's eye. "It's minor, but it has to be taken care of today."

"I see, sir. Do be careful, then," Alfred answered, his tone laden with solicitude.

"I will," Bruce promised before ending the transmission. He hated to make his old friend worry about him when he knew there was no cause for it, but he had less than a half an hour to make the drive up to Arkham if he wanted to be there before ten. Alfred would simply have to wait until he returned, which he hoped would be soon.

Just as he was about to leave, he remembered something. He rushed back to the nightstand beside his bed, opened its single top drawer and placed something in his pocket before hurrying out of the room.

* * *

Bruce's red Ferrari screeched into a spot in the asylum parking lot's first row--again, somewhere he wasn't technically allowed to park. He had been so unnerved by the Joker's implication that he would wreak more havoc and mayhem for him to clean up, that he found it difficult to walk calmly into the building to sign in at the front secretary's office. He was a bit surprised to find the small, red-haired psychologist whom he'd met the first time he'd visited the Joker at Arkham standing beside the desk with a nervous smile on her face. It was obvious she'd been awaiting his arrival, as she reached out her hand to shake his after he'd finished signing in.

"Welcome back, Mr. Wayne," she greeted him in a timid voice. "Dr. Caldwell is busy this morning, so he's asked me to get you in to see the, er, patient, in his stead."

"That's fine with me, Dr.--forgive me," Bruce insisted apologetically, as he just could not remember her name.

"Fable, Dr. Fable," she answered, a blush coloring her pale cheeks as she turned to lead him out of the office. Her thin, white fingers clutched a large file to her slight chest. Bruce did his best to discreetly get a glimpse of the file's heading. It read "Patient J". It had to be the Joker's file. What Bruce would do to get copies of it...

"So, why are you so interested in, um, this patient?" Fable suddenly asked, startling Bruce out of his thoughts.

"Well, Dr. Fable, I suppose I've always been interested in psychology, what makes the human brain tick. The Joker's has got to be one of the most... well, unusual minds ever documented. I know I don't have any fancy degrees, just my own, personal studies, but I'd like to have a crack at him. So to speak." He smiled down at her, revealing a flash of white teeth which made Dr. Fable's lips twitch before she looked away. "I don't really expect to solve the mystery of his insanity, Dr. Fable. I just feel that talking with him will be an education in itself."

"I understand, Mr. Wayne," Fable said quietly, admiring the billionaire's quest for knowledge. "He's truly a fascinating individual."

"Oh? Have you been able to talk much with him?" Bruce asked quickly, regarding the small woman with curiosity.

"Several times, yes. With my huge caseload, it's difficult to find the time for everyone. He should really be seeing someone more than once a week."

"Why? What have you diagnosed him with?" Bruce probed, trying to sound just slightly interested. Dr. Fable smiled thinly.

"It's just around the corner, there. You'll be in the same room as you were last time," she said, ignoring his question. Bruce mentally cursed himself for underestimating the meek woman's intelligence. He recognized where they were, but did not know the orderly standing outside of the room.

"Mr. Wayne, this is Jeff. If you have any problems, just press the red button on this beeper, and he'll come right in," Fable said, handing Bruce a small device. He shook Jeff's hand and nodded to him in thanks.

"New technology?" he asked. Dr. Fable smiled and nodded.

"It's from Wayne Enterprises, actually," Jeff told him. The three laughed together briefly.

"With so much to keep on top of, I occasionally get behind," Bruce excused himself jokingly.

"Well, shall we?" Dr. Fable prompted, indicating the door to the room which held the Joker.

"Of course," Bruce affirmed, forcing himself to smile. His blood pulsed thickly in his veins as Fable keyed in the code to unlock the door. He wished he had the courage to ask for ten minutes alone so that he could mentally prepare himself for this meeting. It disturbed him that the Joker agitated him so, but he knew that anyone who had received such a chilling phone call from a mass murderer early in the morning would likely be a bit nervous when going in to see that same murderer in person. He had to summon up Batman's courage and reserve quickly, as Dr. Fable was now opening the door.

* * *

The dull, blank room unfurled into view with its colorful centerpiece, a grinning Joker, once again forcibly affixed to his seat. His keen eyes sliced through the form of Dr. Fable on their way to piercing into Bruce. Despite giving off a hint of discomfiture at being scrutinized, he stubbornly refused to look away, which greatly amused the Joker. The unmasked clown chuckled to himself and dragged his eyes away from Bruce to focus on his psychologist, fingers once again twitching against their bound hands.

"Hello, J," she greeted the Joker pleasantly, appearing genuinely unafraid of him.

"Well, hello, Doc," he returned. "This going to be a joint session? My friend here needs help more than I do! He's a bit, ah, _batty_, you see."

Fable glanced at Bruce with her fair brows knitted together, but he shrugged off the Joker's claim with a roll of his eyes.

"Just press that button if he gives you any trouble," the doctor whispered to Bruce, blushing at his sincere smile of thanks before she turned and quietly left the room. Without a word or a glance in the Joker's direction, Bruce pulled out the same flimsy chair he'd used during their last meeting and sat down in it. He seethed inside as he heard the irritatingly familiar smacking of lips and a throaty giggle.

"So. You like her?" Joker asked. Bruce finally looked up at him with narrowed eyes, confused at the other's unusually serious expression.

"The doc! D'ya like her?" Joker asked again, a sadistic smirk twisting the left side of his mouth upwards, his sharp eyes never leaving Bruce's. "That little, wiry figure, those long, red curls, that shy, reticent demeanor. Like that sorta thing, do ya? Putting pretty, tiny things in their place? She'd be the perfect submissive."

Bruce's nose twitched in disgust at the other's lewd insinuation. He did not even wish to dignify it with a response.

"Don't you ever bring up anything having to do with bats in front of other people again. Do you understand me?" He glared pointedly at the other.

Joker's eyes widened at this rather unexpected change of topic, and then he threw his head back and laughed loudly.

"Oh, _Brucie_, do you _really_ think they'd make that connection? You give them far too much credit! You're the furthest person imaginable from Batm--"

"Shut up!" Bruce hissed, leaning forward in his seat. His dark eyes locked with the Joker's dancing green ones, and he found it difficult to pull away from the magnetic madness that swirled within them. "There may be a recording device hidden in this room."

"Ohh, I doubt that," Joker scoffed, right index finger wagging at Bruce, straining against the binding. "Once again, too much credit."

Bruce sniffed contemptuously at the Joker's lack of discretion. Recalling why he'd come here in the first place, he straightened in his seat, at last pulling back from the other. For a man who had all but poured his tortured soul out to him just hours earlier on the phone, the Joker appeared remarkably composed and just a bit smug. Bruce frowned.

"Your phone call," he started, voice low and even, eyes warily regarding the clown. "You seemed... pretty upset."

"I_ did_, didn't I?" Joker's pointed tongue dragged across his bottom lip, punctuating his sentence. Bruce's eyes followed the movement unconsciously, which encouraged Joker to repeat it more slowly. "As you can see, I feel pretty relaxed right now." He darted his tongue out again, this time out of habit. Bruce's own lips twitched and he abruptly turned away.

"Would you stop that?" Bruce insisted harshly. "It's obscene."

Joker raised his eyebrows, genuinely at a loss.

"Pardon me, Bruce, but I don't follow--"

"The... tongue swiping. Knock it off." Bruce continued to avoid the Joker's eyes.

The Joker's playful demeanor and expression immediately disappeared, like a veil being pulled from a painting. The sparkle left his eyes, even the semi-permanent grin was wiped from his face. The "tongue swiping" was something he could not help doing. He didn't want to call it a nervous tic because he was certainly not a nervous type of person, but it was indeed uncontrollable, and he did not at all appreciate Bruce's assumption that he was doing it merely to disturb him. In fact, he quite resented him for it.

"People see what they wanna see, Brucie," he muttered. "You must have a pretty _sick mind _to think I'm just doing it to make you hard."

Bruce's head shot up, wide eyes locking with the Joker's. He was at a loss for words; it took him a moment to realize his jaw had dropped just slightly, and he immediately snapped his mouth shut with an embarrassingly loud "clack" of his teeth.

Joker grinned knowingly, reveling in how uncomfortable he was making the other. He inhaled slowly, breathing Bruce's scent into his flared nostrils like oxygen. A man whose spirit had just been brought down to earth possessed a distinctly delicious odor; to describe it in words would be sacrilegious.

Bruce was nauseous. It seemed that there was nothing he could say to redeem himself, and he wondered why one of the Joker's crude jibes had struck him so deeply. He felt strange, unhinged, as though he would not be able to control anything he may say or do, so he forced himself to remain perfectly still. Only his eyes, alight with the turmoil inside of him, darted about the room, the table, the Joker's body and face.

"Brucie," the criminal intoned, squinting sidelong at the man seated across from him. "It wasn't an invitation, so don't even think about it."

Bruce's eyes widened in horror, his stomach clenched sickeningly. After all of his twisted innuendos, his coquettish teasing, the Joker was worried that _Bruce _would... make a move on him? Of all the insulting, manipulative bastards... Bruce glared at the Joker, his lips clamped together in a white, angry line.

"Go to hell," he muttered acidly.

For a moment the Joker only stared back at him wide eyes that almost appeared to convey uncertainty--something Bruce would never have thought the man could feel--before bursting out into near hysterical, whooping laughter.

"Oh! Brucie," he giggled. "D-don't tell me you took that seriously! Y'know, for a guy with no sense of humor, you are _hila_rious!"

Bruce heaved the long-suffering sigh of one who is accustomed to constant setbacks. "All joking aside, "J", why did you call me? Was it a ruse to get me to visit you again? Are you that bored and lonely, not to mention so proud you couldn't have just asked me to come straight out?"

The Joker's face froze for a split second, but he easily recomposed himself. He'd not expected Bruce Wayne to be so clever. He would have to remember that Wayne was Batman, and not just a silly, ignorant playboy. "I like that, you using my nickname. Would you always call me that from now on?"

"I guess so, it's better than referring to you as a playing card... Hey! Don't change the subject," Bruce insisted. "Why did you lie to me?"

The Joker lowered his eyes, his lips spreading in a small, close-mouthed smile. "I didn't." He met Bruce's eyes confidently. "I never lie, Brucie."

"Never?" Bruce asked, rather absentmindedly. He was easily distracted by the other's swift and sudden changes in mood and expression. "I'm not so sure about that."

"You should never be "sure" about anything, Bats--Bruce. Ah, won't happen again," he apologized, offering Bruce a saccharine smile before continuing. "No, you can't ever afford to be completely certain. Know why? Be_cause_, to trust in anything or anyone without any reservations whatsoever is just darn _foolish_, it's asking to be taken advantage of. Which, whether I meant to or not, is what I did to you today."

"So I've gathered," Bruce said dryly. He leaned back in his seat a bit, remembering how tired he was. "You know, I could have slept in today for the first time in a long while if it hadn't been for you."

"Why, Brucie, how touching!" Joker beamed. "But, as I said, I was telling the truth. I do wanna get outta here. Now, that's not so hard to believe, is it? Look at this dump!"

Bruce's eyes followed the Joker's disgusted gaze about the room. His brows furrowed as he wondered if the clown really was planning some elaborate escape. It wouldn't do to just ask him if he were, he'd only get riddles and nonsense in return for his questions. He'd have to play the other's game, communicate with him his way.

"J," he began, noting the other's eyes lighting up at the name. "How can you make a plan to escape from here when you say you don't ever make any plans?"

The Joker's grin stuck to his face, but Bruce could read his annoyance at being foiled. The criminal shook his head and chuckled. "You. You really are him, Brucie. My constantly calculating, little bat."

"Shh!" Bruce tensed, once again leaning forward onto the table. "You said it wouldn't happen again."

"That I did," Joker nodded. "And at the time, I truly meant it. But that's in the past, and there was no way I could've predicted what I'd do in the future back then, now, is there?"

Bruce grunted in irritation, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes with the palms of his hands. "J, I think it's time for me to go."

"Aw, leaving so soon, Brucie?" Joker asked, dismayed. "You were right about one thing, I'm dreadfully bored here, and you're the only guy I seem to be able to get a decent conversation out of these days. Guess I'll have to figure out a way to get you back here soon."

"You don't have to "figure out a way", just ask me to visit again." Bruce pursed his lips, thinking better of that. He didn't want to be disturbed by another early morning call from the Joker. "No, don't do that. How about I come back..." Bruce paused, getting out his blackberry so as to check his overly booked schedule. The Joker eyed the device with curiosity, tonguing the corner of his mouth unconsciously. "Here: next Sunday at around noon."

"Not a church-going man, Brucie?" Joker jibed, earning a sarcastic glare from Bruce.

"I'm sure _you_ won't be busy, at any rate. Now, you have to guarantee--I won't even bother asking you to promise me--that you won't create any significant problems around here until I get back."

"Oh, I'd surely promise you that, Brucie, but as I said before, the future--"

Bruce put up a hand to stop him from going on. "No more philosophical debates, I can't take much more of it. Just do your best, okay?"

The Joker grinned and bowed his head in acquiescence. The two enemies stared at each other, unsure of how to effectively end their meeting. Bruce's stomach continued to roil with guilt and disgust because he knew he didn't mind returning to see the lunatic, despite what the Joker had done to him, to his friends, to his city. The Joker was busily trying to come up with some way to keep Bruce from leaving and at the same time to prolong his inevitable return to his increasingly boring cell.

"Well," Bruce started, making to rise from his seat. "I'm leaving, then."

"Don't I get a good-bye kiss before you go?" The Joker simpered, batting his golden lashes.

Bruce curled his upper lip and rolled his eyes. Because he was completely worn out, and because he was tired of being the butt of the Joker's lewd sense of humor, he decided to show the clown how it felt to be the loser in his revolting, little games. He placed his palms on the table, just before the Joker's restless hands, and leaned forwards until his lips were centimeters away from the other's scarred mouth. He saw the Joker's vibrant green eyes widen exponentially beneath his lowered lids, and he could hear the breath hitch in his throat. Hah.

_No, I can't actually go through with this. It would make me look worse than it'd ever make this psychopath feel. What's the matter with me?_

Bruce snorted through his nose, his breath ghosting against the Joker's lips, causing them to tremble and smack once.

"Do what your doctor says, J, and be good," Bruce said under his breath before slowly backing away from the (satisfyingly) shocked criminal.

"If you say so, Brucie," the Joker answered somewhat dazedly. His eyes were wandering about the right-side wall of the room, and his expression was unusually closed off.

While adjusting his jacket, Bruce felt something a bit heavy in his right pocket. He placed his hand inside it, fingers closing over the rectangular object.

_If I give this to him, he could use it to escape. I wouldn't put it past him. But he has nothing here. If I pretend to trust him with it, maybe he'll stay quiet for a little while. They can decide whether or not he should have it._

The Joker let out a startled gasp when Bruce tossed something onto the table before his left hand. It was his old pack of playing cards. His trademark grin slowly stretched up his cheeks; he almost looked like himself again, even without the makeup.

Without another word or glance passing between the two, Bruce turned and exited the room. In his absence, the Joker grasped the rubber-banded deck of cards in his hand. They were warm, and they smelled like Bruce.

-- -- -- -- --


	14. Telephone

Chapter Fourteen

Telephone

* * *

"I can't stand all of this curly hair sometimes."

Bruce only sighed in response. This was becoming slightly ludicrous.

"So tangly, so... all-over-the-place. Always wanted hair like yours: dark, straight, sophisticated. Y'know?"

It had been several weeks since he'd last visited the Joker. He could hear the other shuffling the deck of cards he'd left him with.

"You there?"

They'd been talking on the phone almost every night since. More often than not, they talked about nothing, literally, for hours.

"Yeah. I'm here."

He had reneged on the Sunday visit he'd promised to make and, despite the Joker's frequent urgings for him to return, he found himself making up excuses as to why he couldn't find the time just yet. Sometimes he really did have some important meeting or get-together to attend, and other times he could just as easily reschedule.

"Mm-hmm. You ever wish you could change something... physical... about yourself, Brucie?"

It was past midnight. Why didn't he just hang up? Why didn't he do it that first night? Why did this murderous lunatic amuse him, make him smile, laugh? They weren't friends; he would not allow himself a friendship with someone as fundamentally evil as the Joker. But they weren't quite enemies now, either. What were they, then?

"I don't think so. Well... when I was around twelve, I wished I weren't so much taller than everyone else my age."

He should be in Arkham right next to the Joker.

No, that would only exaggerate the problem. Maybe, unconsciously, the masochistic part of himself reveled in the guilt and betrayal (of himself, of Rachel and Harvey, of all of Gotham) he derived from this... relationship.

"Hah! That's so like you, Mr. Perfect."

"What?"

"Wishing away that which makes you better than other people, just so you can be more like them. Tell me, did you have a girlfriend when you were twelve?"

"...No."

"You're blushing, I can hear it, Brucie. What did she look like?"

"She wasn't my girlfriend."

"So it was unrequited, then? Was she small, blonde, smart?"

"No, she had dark hair. Why do you care?"

"Didja ever kiss her? What was it like?"

"Can't you ever wait for someone to answer your stupid questions before you ask another one that's even more foolish?"

"I had a girlfriend, y'know. She was small, blonde and smart..."

"...How old were you?"

"Ever look at the other boys in the locker room, Brucie?"

"J, why do you have to--no. No, of course not."

"I didn't either. Didn't really look at anyone, tell you the truth."

"You just told me you had a--"

"Brucie, are you tired?"

"...No. Why, are you?"

"No."

Why couldn't he just hang up? What was the point of all this? It wasn't going anywhere, never did. These phone calls were slowly becoming an addiction, one that Bruce realized (with the accustomed accompaniment of nausea) he was unwilling to squelch before it got the best of him, as all addictions do in the end.

"J, where did you go?"

"Oh, nowhere, nowhere. Just listening to you breathe. Your breath sounds tired, Bruce."

He sighed. He had to stop this. Soon...

"Do you want me to go or something? I really should, actually--"

"No! No, not now. Syd hasn't given the signal that I need to get off the phone yet."

"And why should I have to wait for you? Unlike you, I have to go to work in the morning."

"You should sleep in, Brucie. And then visit me."

"...J, I don't think I can tomorrow, I'm too busy. And I don't like that this corrupted guard is helping you break the rules. What are you paying him with?"

"What do you think?"

"...I don't know."

"A-haha. Your mind is wandering, Brucie, I can hear the wheels a-turnin'. Are you thinking about me, ah, paying ol' Syd off with my _favors_?"

"Knock it off, J."

"Would you like me to do you a _favor, _Brucie?"

"It's not funny, J. Stop it."

_Damn that crazy laugh of his, it makes me see red._

"Don't worry, cupcake, ol' Syd is not at _all _my kinda guy. Now, slap him into an imposing, black bat suit, and I might just consider--"

"I'm hanging up."

"No, no! Wait! I'll stop, I'll stop."

"Good."

"Geez."

"...What?"

"You're such a prude."

"You're such a psycho."

"Ha-ha. We're made for each other. You'll see, one day. Ah, you're not busy."

"What?"

"Tomorrow. You're not too busy to come see me."

"Stop changing the subject."

"You did it first, Brucie, it's only _fair_."

"...I can't."

"Why not?"

_He sounds so forlorn. What more does he want than this? Why does he need to see me to talk with me? It needs to stay this way._

"Why do you need to see me again?"

"Because you complete me."

"J, be serious, for once."

"Hmm. You'd never be able to tell if I were, Brucie, 'cause I'm always sah-_miling_."

"Why do you want me to come back?"

"...I'm lonely. I want to talk."

"We are talking."

"I want to see you."

"Why? Why is that better than this? What difference will it make if you can see me?"

"You could've let me fall, Bats, but you picked me back up and sent me here."

"Are you saying I owe you because I didn't kill you? How does that make any sense, even to you!"

"I'm saying, come see me. Please."

_He said, "please". Oh, God, this is becoming absolutely ludicrous._

"Maybe. Let me sleep on it."

"Don't go yet, I'm not tired."

"You're never tired, but I am. Let me go."

"Hrmph. Fine. G'night, Bats."

"'Night, J. Be good."

_Click._

_I can't go back, I can't go back, nothing good will come of it. ...Maybe I should, just one last time..._

_I hate myself._

* * *

"Hello?"

_You sound sleepy, sleeping bee-eauty. Must be from all the work you weren't doing to avoid me._

"You didn't come."

"Evidently not, J. Are you mad at me?"

_Well, well, what a charmer. No wonder Bats can so easily get away with murder when Bruce has been practicing all his life..._

"Not _mad_, per se, though the guys in the white lab coats might disagree with me. No, let's just say that I'm _disappointed_."

"My father used to say that to me when I did something wrong. I used to hate it."

"Oh? Do I remind you of your daddy, Bruce?"

"Not in the slightest, you lunatic."

_You call me crazy, but you can't do without me now. I've got you picking up by the second ring. Nothin's cuh-razier than dependency, Bats._

"A-hah. It was worse than if he were to tell you that he was angry, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"_I_ beg to differ. You know, _my _daddy had a habit of telling me--_showing _me--when he was angry with me, and I'll tell you, I would've preferred for him to merely be dis-ap-poin-ted."

"...What did he do to you?"

"Do I detect a hint of concern in that mighty voice, oh, Bats?"

"Don't call me that over the phone."

"Ha-ha. Why, wire tapping?"

"No. I'm not him when I'm on the phone..."

"--With me, you were going to say. Mm-hmm."

_I rather wish you were. I can read Bats like the back of my hand, but you--_

"Don't change the subject."

Don't _tell me what to do, Brucie._

"If we were to meet again, face-to-face, as Bat and Clown, would you still slap me around?"

"We were talking about your father."

_Let's leave that for now. Not a good time._

"I hope that you would. I never told you, but I, ah-ha, I love it when you--"

"J--"

"--have your way with me. I guess I'm just the kinda girl who _asks_ for it, eh, Batsy?"

"_Don't _call me that again."

_There's my Bat! Oh, I haven't heard your voice in so long, keep talking..._

"And why not? Aren't you him? Are you two different people, then? ...No answer? I'll take that as a "yes". You know, _Bruce, _that's just classic, they would just _eat that up _around here--"

"Screw you, Joker. You pretend to laugh, to kid around, but I know you're just being a vindictive asshole because I've hit a sore spot. Your father--"

"_My father is dead!_"

_...That wasn't J's voice, it was joking--not kidding. Who are we supposed to be now? Why are my hands shaking, why--is this anger? No, I will _not_ feel that! I will _not_ go backwards!..._

"J, calm down, you're... hyperventilating into the phone. I didn't mean--"

"I'm not angry, Bruce! I... Syd, gimme another minute, I'll keep it down, okay?"

"J, what's going on? Do you have to go?"

"--Uh-huh. Thanks, pal. ...You there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

_Yes, he's here. He's here..._

"Bruce."

"Yes?"

"Come see me. Soon, come see me."

"...All right, I'll come see you. Really."

_That worked? Bless my stars._

"Uh, J, I didn't mean to--"

"When was the last time you got laid, Brucie? ...Hee, I can hear you blushing again."

"Why do these things matter, J!"

"Calm down, tiger, I'm just a very... _visual_... person. And I like details. Now, be forthcoming, it's so dull around here at night."

"Well... I... No! It's none of your business, you freak!"

"Ah-haha, you have all this time to talk to me, must've been a while."

"Stop calling, then!"

"So I was right. Tsk, tsk. What's wrong, those naive starlets and ambitious models ain't doin' it for ya anymore?"

"J--"

"Maybe that's why you're so... _intense_... as the Bat, when you _pound_ on us bad guys. Gotta get off _some_how."

_Even I don't know why I go there. No schemes, no plans--_

"All right, I'm going to bed."

"Have I inspired you, Brucie?"

"I'm going... to _sleep_."

"Oh, must you, doll face? I was just starting to enjoy myself..."

"Good night, J."

"Oh, fine, fine. G'night, Brucie. Ah-ha, _sweet dreams_."

"...Be good."

_Always says it, always has to hear "yes", as though words will ever make a difference._

"Wait, Bruce!"

"Yeah?"

_Don't say--_

"Don't forget. Come see me, soon."

"...I won't forget, J. I'll come."

_Click_

_It's not happy, just anticipation, just waiting for more fun, a nice change of schedule. Happy doesn't exist, never did, just a scheme, just a rude lie. My mouth hurts, but I'm not smiling, 'cause I'm _always_ smiling._

_-- -- -- -- --_


	15. Push Me Harder

Chapter Fifteen

Push Me Harder

* * *

_...A long time ago, I was the same way. I tried. So. _Hard_ to live with the rest of the herd, to live _their_ way, and it almost killed me. Ha! Now a death like that would keep me laughing for hours, but then! _Then_, he was pathetically afraid of it while he begged for it at the same time. What a disgusting, controlled, _weak_ piece of--_

_A-ha, hahaha. Now. _Now_ I am free because I am no one, I am nothing it_self_. I am above and beyond anything I could have ever been if it hadn't been for the pain. I accept it, I create it, I love it, it is life, it is _real_. It is real. Humanity isn't real. It's... man-made, _syn_thetic, with all of their "supposed to"s and their "do the right thing"s. How am I supposed to do the right thing if it isn't_ real_!_

_But the Bat,_ he_ is real. Bruce holds him back from being himself, but I can smell it, _taste_ it--he's real._

_He could be so much more than he is. I have the urge to crush him, if it'll send him to the place where I'm at. No, not here, but _always_, the place where I'm _always_ at. I suppose he doesn't know any better, how could he? He took his loss and went _one_ way, the way they all told him to go, and I took mine and went _anywhere I wanted_. Everywhere I thought I couldn't before. I can do anything, be anyone, I can--I can--I _can_, now. Can anything, anywhere, anyone, anyHOW._

_It's so exhilarating! He can't comprehend! I almost pity him if that weren't such a useless--ugh--e-mo-tion. I'm flying so high in my head while he can only do it with his body in those silly, man-made bat wings of his. It's a shame, it's a _sorrow_._

_He's better than all that, good enough to be in here with me. They say that two heads are better than one, and ya never know until ya try--they say that, too..._

"Hey, J!"

"Huh? What is it?" The Joker's eyes darted about the cell before settling upon Jeff, the orderly, who stood just inside the door. "Oh, hello there, Jeff. Been waiting long?"

"I've been callin' your name for five damn minutes. You're lucky you came to, 'cause I was this far from smackin' you upside the head," Jeff replied, feigning irritation that did a poor job of masking concern. Joker grinned impishly.

"Oh, Jeff, you _really_ should have. It's been so dull around here lately."

"Careful what you wish for," Jeff joked halfheartedly. He'd never had a patient ask--clear and straightforward--for pain before Mr. J; it was unsettling. "Anyway, you got a visitor. Prince charming is back."

The Joker's smile faltered a moment, but he was able to compose himself before Jeff could possibly notice that his heart had leapt into his throat. He really hadn't thought Bruce would fulfill his word, not this quickly. He was uncomfortably unprepared, but he rose from the cot and held his wrists out to Jeff obediently.

"Ready when you are, pal."

* * *

_This was a bad idea, it was a really _stupid _thing to do._

Bruce Wayne was following Sydney down the increasingly familiar halls of Arkham Asylum to meet with the Joker. Once again, he'd promised Caldwell more money, and once again, he was allowed an hour with the prisoner. He was wearing a steel grey suit, a white shirt and a blue tie with subtle grey stripes. Rather formal, as he'd come from his office at Wayne Enterprises, in which he'd sat behind his desk in between meetings, trying to decide whether or not he should go through with this. At the last minute--after bidding Lucius Fox a good day and strapping himself into the Porsche--he'd robotically gotten out his cell phone and dialed the number to Caldwell's private line.

_What is the point of all this? _He asked himself for the hundredth time. _Do you _really _think that proving there's a human being somewhere in that twisted heap of scrap metal clanking around in his head will make you feel better about what he's _done_?_

"You got an hour," Sydney informed him as he handed him the "portable panic button", startling Bruce out of his reverie. He blinked sharply, noticing that they stood before he and the Joker's accustomed meeting place.

"No exchanging of anything whatsoever between yourself and the prisoner--that means no more cards--and no touching." The guard spoke the last word with distaste. "If you think you can hold yourself back."

Bruce's eyes widened and then narrowed at Sydney's thinly veiled insinuation. What had the Joker said to him? He sneered at the man as he keyed in the code to unlock the cell door.

"I don't know what he's paying you with, "Syd"," Bruce muttered acidly. "But you should know that his currency's no good around here."

He ignored Sydney's stuttered protests and smoothly entered the room, pushing the door shut in his face. The Joker was already laughing hysterically at what he'd just overheard, and Bruce rolled his eyes at him, forcing his lips to remain in a straight line. This was no time for kidding around. Unlike their previous meetings, he felt no need to prepare himself to converse with the prisoner--likely due to their many phone calls.

"So," Bruce began, pulling out the chair across from the Joker. "What did you tell him about me?"

"What--what_ever_ do you mean, Brucey?" Joker gasped out in between slowly subsiding chuckles. "A guy like Syd will _always_ choose to think of filth if he doesn't know the reason for two people like us to associate. You should know _tha-t_."

Bruce smirked mirthlessly, his gaze traveling over the prisoner's bound form before stopping to rest obsequiously upon the Joker's naked, youthful face. The unmasked clown smiled, tongue swiping out from between his yellow teeth.

"Wondering how I _really _got these scars, Brucey?"

Bruce shook his head and frowned at the Joker's mouth. "No. Actually, I was wondering if you've ever brushed your teeth before."

Joker raised his eyebrows in momentary surprise and purposefully grinned wider; he was not offended. "Y'know, you'd be surprised how _little _I'm asked that. Seems most are too preoccupied with the _scars_ to pay much attention to the _teeth_." He squinted, eyes rolled upwards as though he were seeing the information in his brain. "Ah, I used to be _quite_ the chain smoker."

"You'd have to have started as a young child for your teeth to be that badly damaged," Bruce replied doubtfully. Joker only giggled and nodded his head, and Bruce couldn't help himself from wrinkling up his nose in disgust. "How'd you finally quit, then?"

"Ah! Was nothing. It's such a useless, _human _habit. Once I decided to become the Joker, it had to go with the rest of my, ah, foibles."

Bruce swallowed down a jolt of excitement; Joker was being unusually open with him, and he didn't believe the clown was lying. He decided to keep it light and play it cool. "So, you're no longer human, then?"

"Not in the way that _you _and the rest of them are, no," Joker answered, his tone this side of serious until he smacked his lips and smiled again. "I'm the "wave of the future"."

"Uh-huh," Bruce said dryly, relaxing back into his chair. "I'll be honest with you, J: I don't think anyone outside of the patients in this asylum would agree with you on that point."

"That's just your problem, Brucey." Joker leaned forward in his seat, dark green eyes boring into his companion's. "You. Don't. _Thin-k_. About the truly important things in life. You're too busy dwelling on what clothes to buy, what girls to date, which events to attend, and it's all a ruse to hide _who you really are_. Now, if you ask me, that's almost _depressing_."

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but found that no words were forthcoming. The Joker was right; he worked harder than he'd ever have liked to perfect his careless image as billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. He couldn't be Batman all the time, so when he wasn't in costume, who was he?

"Who are you?" Joker echoed his thoughts, voice a low, soothing murmur. His eyes glowed darkly with confidence. "You're halfway in between Bruce and Bats, and neither of them makes you happy. You _want_ to be happy, Bruce, I _know_ you do. _I understand_."

Bruce recognized this tactic, he'd seen its example in the bright-eyed, smiling faces of all of the clown's mindless followers. The Joker was attempting to seduce him with psychological manipulation and a flimsy semblance of genuine caring. But he was not another dim-witted thug or dissatisfied mental health patient, a lost soul the Joker could so easily claim for his own. No, Bruce was stronger than that. He smiled knowingly at the other man and shook his head once.

"If you have to try, J, then you don't know who I am either," he said quietly. The Joker's green eyes crackled and then softened, the smooth self-assurance slowly leaving his body like helium through the hole in a balloon. The reappearance of a darting tongue and restless fingers reminded Bruce that, for a moment, the Joker had been perfectly still.

"I want to know as much as you do," the prisoner insisted. "Maybe more so."

"Why?" Bruce wasn't sure whether or not this was just another stage in the game. He did not know which side of the Joker was real, if any of them were. Sadly, he realized that perhaps the clown didn't know either. "What's it to you?"

Joker lowered his eyes, a small smile teasing the corners of his scarred lips. "Everything, now. You're all I have left in here."

Bruce swallowed hard, forcing down his shock at the clown's admission. He knew the Joker was a master manipulator, and he suddenly feared that perhaps he had never been able to tell the difference between the man's lies and his truths if he were always so easily effected by his words. The urge to leave, to flee the scene, was overwhelming.

Like a dog sniffing out man's fear, the Joker's eyes darted up to meet Bruce's.

"Don't," he insisted. "Not yet."

"I'm not your project," Bruce replied, disgusted at the slight quaver in his voice. "You don't get extra credit or time served for figuring me out. There's no point."

"Why should there _have_ to be! What good does a _point_, a _reason_, a _conclusion_, do anyone, least of all _you_!" Joker spat. His hands balled into tight fists and the veins stood out on his pale arms as he strained against his imprisonment. Hopelessly trapped, he exclaimed wordlessly in frustration. "How can I explain this, how can I make you _understand_?"

"Why do you think you need to?" Bruce implored, the other's frustration infecting him as well. "Why do I have to understand you?"

"Because a mind like yours is _capable_ of it! Don't let it go to waste, I _can't stand_ waste!" Joker shouted. He looked absolutely livid, his face reddened and his body taut as a rope in the chair. He continued to struggle against the binding straps, cursing as his limbs met their firm resistance. He turned to Bruce, the pleading look in his eyes near desperate. "Get me out of this!"

Bruce averted his eyes with a sigh. How was he going to explain the Joker out of his chair, should someone enter the room before time was up?

"Please," Joker begged him in a whisper. "Bruce, get me out."

Something in Bruce's chest gave way, causing his heart to throb painfully while it sank down into his stomach. He hated his need to answer a cry for help, no matter who was calling for it. Without a sound, he rose to reach across the desk and deftly undo the tightly secured leather straps around the Joker's wrists. The clown exhaled in relief, rubbing at the angry, purplish marks left by the binds. He smiled gratefully at Bruce, no trace of the fury he had experienced just seconds ago marring his imperfect features.

"Much obliged, doll face," Joker said with a playful wink at Bruce, who now looked quite embarrassed. "Feels _so _much better!"

"_Must_ you?" Bruce muttered, referring to the silly pet name. True to form, the Joker's face took on a perplexed expression. Bruce rolled his eyes and put up one hand before the clown could ask him what he meant. "Never mind. Don't get too comfortable, we only have about twenty minutes left."

Joker shrugged and rested back into his chair, placing his freed hands behind his head. "May as well enjoy it, then." A large smile spread up his jagged cheeks as a bright idea popped into his head. "Care for a game of cards, Brucey?"

Bruce favored him with a dubious look, his eyes roaming about the Joker's plain, pocketless uniform. "Depends on where you've been hiding them."

Joker guffawed loudly as if his companion had just told him a rich, dirty joke. "Oh, _you_. Gettin' creative again, huh?" He teased, looking up at Bruce from underneath his brows. "So far, they haven't been too concerned with my having them. Jeff let me tuck them in my shorts before coming out to see you."

Bruce looked as though he were going to be sick as he watched the Joker yank out the waistband of his white, cotton pants with one hand, reach in with the other and come out with the same deck of cards he'd returned to him. Joker tsked at him and began to elaborately shuffle the cards.

"Such a snooty blue-blood, aren't you?" he accused playfully. "Don't worry, they force me to be, ah, sparkling clean for the duration of my stay here at the Arkham."

Bruce said nothing, continuing to watch the black, red and white cards as they flew and spun between the Joker's dexterous hands. The clown noticed his fascination with what he considered a minor skill and grinned.

"Want to see a magic trick?"

Bruce finally met his eyes, searching for any trace of deceit in them. Knowing he would not find it even if the Joker was planning to do something dangerous with the cards, he allowed his curiosity to win out and shrugged non-committally. (Best to pretend he did not care one way or the other.) Joker's eyes sparkled with excitement. He bounced in his seat, finding it difficult to contain himself; it really is the simpler things in life that give one the most pleasure.

He spread the deck of cards out on his left arm, turning them all over one by one with the sweeping motion of a single finger. With a flourish, he allowed them to spill into a uniform deck in his left hand before he clamped his fingers around them and shot each card individually into his other awaiting palm. For the big finish, he tossed small packs of the deck between his hands as though he were juggling them.

"Ta-da!" He fanned out the cards in one hand and held them, facing away from himself, out to Bruce. "Now, pick a card, any card..."

Bruce couldn't stop himself from smiling a bit; the Joker really did possess a great deal of showmanship. He could almost be convinced that the criminal had once been a real clown at children's birthday parties. Wordlessly, he nodded and tapped his finger once to one of the cards. It was the jack of spades.

"Excellent, excellent," the Joker enthused and re-shuffled the cards in the same skillful manner. After a moment, he fanned out the deck once more with their faces toward himself, and picked out a card, flipping it over to show Bruce. "Is this the card you chose?"

It was the queen of hearts. Disappointed, Bruce shook his head. The Joker's expression mirrored his own as he replaced the card. He held up a finger, requesting another try. He re-shuffled the cards, this time more briefly, and picked another. "How about this one?"

Regretfully, Bruce shook his head again at the ten of diamonds. The Joker cursed under his breath. "Just one more try."

He shuffled the cards very quickly and plucked out the seven of clubs. Bruce's face fell, which gave the clown his answer.

"Damn! I don't know what happened! It _always_ works, _always_! Maybe it was because..." His lips began to quirk upwards. He jabbed his tongue at each corner of his mouth to still them. With a grand, graceful movement, he appeared to pull the jack of spades out from behind his right ear. "...I'd forgotten I left it here for safe-keeping."

Bruce gazed at him like an awed child, his eyes wide and his lower lip hanging slightly open. He knew what sleight of hand was, he utilized it himself as Batman in many ways, yet he hadn't detected the Joker's ruse with the card. The man had on short sleeves. "How did you do that?"

Joker tilted his head to the side, a knowing grin on his face. "Ah, if you have to ask, you'll never know." He winked. "Ta-da!"

Bruce chuckled softly, unable to help himself. "Very nice, J, very nice. You used to be in the circus?"

"Yech! Hated the circus even as a child. Too many..." His hands flitted about as he searched for words. "...pretenders!"

"Are you referring to the clowns or the acrobats? Perhaps the ringmaster?" Bruce asked teasingly. Joker pursed his lips at him unappreciatively, which encouraged his tormentor. "Is that why you became the Joker--some sort of ironic revenge because the circus thought you weren't good enough to join?"

"Don't mock who I am," Joker threatened him, his demeanor suddenly cold. "I'm the same person with or without my costume on. _You _wear two costumes, and you don't feel at home in _either_. The weak aren't fit to judge me."

A vein in Bruce's temple ticked with fury. He inhaled a long, slow breath in through his nose, willing himself to calm down. The Joker knew exactly what to say to arouse his ire in little more than a few words, and those particular words had cut deeply; it was a loathsome skill the clown possessed. The deep breaths weren't helping.

""Weak?" _You're_ too much of a coward to face your own past. _You_ probably don't even remember your own name, and _that's_ why you refuse to tell anyone." The Joker's venom was filling up Bruce's lungs, and he spat it back at his nemesis with poisonous ease. "I don't care if your father beat the living shit out of you every day and your mother walked the streets every night--it didn't give you the right to become the sick, murdering bastard that you are!"

The Joker shot up from his seat, his scarred face a mask of murderous anger. In all of their battles together, Bruce had never seen him look so deadly. He rose as well, using his full height to look down upon the criminal, his body unconsciously prepared for a fight. For one long moment, the two stared each other down, each of their locked gazes conveying all of the hatred they felt for the other.

Joker was the one to make the first move--he grit his teeth and aimed his right hook at Bruce's face. The trained martial artist easily caught the fist and twisted its arm behind the Joker's back. Despite the painful angle, Joker did not reveal that he felt any pain. Instead, he attempted to swing his left fist into Bruce's jaw, but the vigilante disabled that as well, likewise twisting it behind his opponent's back. Bruce knew that if the Joker's feet hadn't been shackled to his chair, he would be much more difficult to control, and this was no place in which to stage an epic battle. He had to brace one knee on the narrow table that separated the two in order to hold the murderer at bay, which forced him to keep his face in an uncomfortably close proximity to the Joker's. Hot pants of breath mingled in the small space between their mouths as neither man was willing to back down and concede to the other's will.

Always needing to go one step further, to maintain the upper hand, the Joker bared his teeth and latched them tightly onto Bruce's scowling lower lip. He leered around it as he heard his foe's pained grunt and tasted his coppery blood. He waited for the other man to offer a sign that he'd given up, but it did not come. Taken aback, Joker loosened his jaws just slightly but did not relinquish his grip. Rage slowly abaiting, his vision cleared enough for him to realize that he was still staring into Bruce's dark eyes. They revealed no fury, no bloodlust... only strength, patience.

For his part, Bruce had experienced worse pain than this, but the clarity of mind that he was accustomed to experiencing during combat had not overcome him. Conversely, his thoughts were muddled and disjointed, shrouding him in confusion.

He swam in the green sea of the Joker's stormy gaze, barely noticing as the power of the other man's bite progressively decreased to a gentle grasp between his teeth. Thoughtlessly, the Joker was overcome by a curious urge to know what it would feel like to press his upper lip to his enemy's, and he did so with a feather-light touch.

This soft modicum of contact effected Bruce like a physical blow and jolted his senses to full alertness. His lips trembled against the Joker's hold but he was unable to remove them. His eyes wavered around the Joker's stare but he refused to avert them.

The soft beeping of the keypad being pressed outside of the door may as well have been the blasts of an explosion. The two started violently and speedily drew apart, the Joker falling back onto his chair while Bruce hurried to re-bind his wrists.

As Sydney entered the room, he found Bruce leaning over the table before the prisoner. The billionaire turned towards him in an easy motion, poorly concealing the sneer that twisted his left nostril.

"Ah. Syd. What good timing; I was just leaving," he said imperiously and smoothed back his slick hair.

The guard looked from him to the Joker--who was staring blankly at his bound hands--and had the feeling that he'd interrupted an important discussion. For some unexplained reason, he felt awkward about it. Just as he began to wonder what had happened to Wayne's bottom lip, the man quickly slipped past him and started out of the room.

* * *


	16. A Quiet Before the Storm

Chapter Sixteen

A Quiet Before the Storm

* * *

He had done extra push-ups and crunches, performed ancient Eastern relaxation techniques, watched mindless late-night television, even forced down a nauseating glass of warm milk (Alfred always swore by it), but it was all of no use; Bruce Wayne just couldn't sleep. It was now 3:17 A.M. At some point during the past hour he had given up striving for sleep and simply lay sprawled atop his gigantic bed, staring at the ceiling. It was not as though he wasn't tired--he was by now _over_tired--he just could not stop his mind from circuitously rehashing the previous afternoon's meeting with the Joker.

He was unable to articulate any definitive emotional response to what had happened between them, and so he had since been trapped in a fuzzy, exhausting haze of disbelief since the incident had occurred. Despite what he considered to be the Joker's innocent attempts at flirtation--made only to irritate and unsettle him--he had never expected their already unorthodox relationship to progress to... _this_.

_What _is _this_? Bruce wondered. _What am I supposed to _do _about it_?

Nothing, was the answer he finally decided upon. Any further communication with the Joker, positive or negative, would be feeding into the clown's irrational need for his attention. It was entirely possible--quite likely, even--that Joker had only initiated the "kiss" to one-up his score in the game of disturbing Bruce. But in so doing, he'd crossed a line that Bruce was not able to allow him to go back on. Joke or not, the kiss had made him feel something; exactly what it was, his shamed and rattled brain refused to decipher it for him in laymen's terms. Befriending the man who'd murdered his best friend was bad enough, but going any further with the criminal was unacceptable to Bruce, in more ways than one.

That was it: he would, from this moment onwards, cease any and all contact between himself and the Joker.

* * *

For his part, the Joker had no intention of contacting Bruce Wayne--not by phone, anyway. The billionaire had left their last meeting in a shaken state that Joker had never been able to reduce him to as the Batman. He almost wished he had planned the events which led to his nemesis' undoing.

_But I never make plans..._

He would be lying to himself (and it was useless to betray oneself) if he were to say that, for a few moments after it had happened, he hadn't been feeling a bit uneasy. Truthfully, his state of mind had mirrored the frightfully astonished expression on Bruce's face. Therefore, he wasted no time in pondering on the ramifications the incident had wreaked upon his psyche. Instead, he chose to capitalize on what it had done, and was further capable of doing, to Bruce's.

He was fairly certain that Bruce wasn't going to be contacting him again any time soon, so he would be forced to make the next move. A surprise visit to Wayne Manor seemed in order, he decided. However, in order accomplish this, he'd first have to check out of this place.

Perhaps now was a good time to make use of his therapy sessions with Dr. Fable...

* * *

"Good morning, J," Fable greeted him in her light, almost childishly high-pitched voice. She waited for him to be helped (strapped) into his seat by Jeff before continuing. Once the orderly was confident that the patient was secured as comfortably as was possible, he nodded to the Doctor and left the room.

When she had started working at Arkham Asylum, the demure and diminutive Dr. Fable had surprised the staff by requesting that no security personnel be present during any of her sessions, no matter how dangerous the individual she was meeting with was known to be. She felt that it would impede the difficult process of gaining the trust of her patients.

The Joker had been no exception to her preferred one-on-one method of counseling. In fact, she'd soon come to find that she felt more at ease with him than with any other patient in her roster. He was, in his eccentric way, polite and courteous to her, and was able to make her laugh despite herself.

The Joker saw her willingness to trust him as a distinct weakness, one that he'd smelt out moments after meeting with her for the first time. He grinned openly at the Doctor, enjoying the her small smile and the immediate aversion of her eyes from his.

"'Mornin', Doc," he answered congenially. "How's tricks?"

"I'm just fine. But remember, J, we're not here to talk about me. Just you." She was unable to suppress the smile he'd inspired. "How have you been feeling this past week?"

"Just peachy, Doc. I eat, I sleep, I play cards, I pace... _Dee_-lightful existence," he answered dryly.

"I know you've been bored, but how are you_ feeling_ about your life here?" Fable pressed.

"_Feeling_? Well, ah..." He smacked his lips, eyes rolling in their sockets as if searching his memory. "Like a blank slate, I guess you could say. Without color or spontaneity."

She jotted down a brief note about avoidance and suppression in the notebook she clutched to her lap.

"You know, J, I don't know much more about you than I did when we first began," Fable admitted thoughtfully. "It's almost as if you have only allowed yourself to experience a limited number of emotions, ones that you've found to be the safest. Most people would have a profound reaction to such a drastic change of their lifestyle, but you appear not even to have noticed that you are, in essence, locked away from society."

"Oh, you know me, doll face. Come rain or come shine, I never change." He focused on her small, pointed face, shutting out everything else in the room. "You don't either."

Fable met his intense green eyes. Something about the way he had said that, the commanding tone of his voice, had unexpectedly shaken her. She said nothing, inadvertently allowing him to go on.

"You never have changed in all your life, have you, Doc?" He leaned as far forward as his restraints would permit, his eyes never leaving hers. "I could be looking at you at age six, twelve, eighteen... And there wouldn't be much of a difference."

His eyes travelled a languid path down her body and back up to her face again. With a smirking grin, he took in her blush; the ladies were always more fond of him when he didn't have his face on.

"Well... you've _obvious_ly grown up since then, but inside, _inside_, you're the same nervous, little girl who always does what she's told and clings to the rules. They're your only links to safety in an endless ladder of hardship and disappointment. You tell me that I confine myself to one or two safe, little emotions, but _Doc_..." he grinned, brimming with excitement. "Don't ya know by now that _nothing _is _safe_? You're not, I'm not, _Batman_'s not even safe." He chuckled darkly.

"But once you accept that, accept and overcome _fear_, you'll be set free. The reason why I'm not, ah, _bothered_ by this place is because I'm not _afraid_ of it. I don't_ express_ sadness, depression, anger... because I don't _feel_ them. There's no need." His greedy eyes were locked on the woman seated before him, her body limp and her blue eyes helpless; he had her in his complete thrall. "Not for me... Not for you..."

"Not for anyone..." she whispered automatically, then gasped quietly and looked away from her patient.

The sound of her own voice had startled her, made her realize how the Joker had mesmerized her with his uncanny understanding and artful turn of phrase. She was a trained professional, a PhD. No sociopathic psychotic should be able to effect her this way, no matter how clever or conniving they were.

But that was just it... the Joker didn't seem to be gone at all. On the contrary, he was completely in control of his mental faculties. He knew things about her that no one could possibly ever know, let alone one who was insane. He saw a way out of the madness this world forced everyone to participate in.

Perhaps he wasn't really crazy at all. Perhaps, Fable mused, he was actually too sane...

The Joker smiled as he watched his doctor process her reaction to his words. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head, could almost read her thoughts.

_People are so pathetically pre-dic-table. But, somehow, I've yet to get bored of them_...

* * *


End file.
